


Your Horizon to Chase

by Papillonae



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Anachronistic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Crush, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Catholicism, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Chivalry, Comfort, Countries Using Human Names, Drama, Dread Pirates Roberts, Duelling, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Flashbacks, Found Family, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Intrigue, Love Confessions, Loyalty, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Misunderstandings, Multi, My First AO3 Post, Nostalgia, Paganism, Parody, Pirates, Pirates of the Caribbean References, Protectiveness, Religious Conflict, Rescue Missions, Romance, Royalty, Self-Indulgent, Some Humor, Suicide Attempt, Swordfighting, Swords, Teenage Dorks, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Princess Bride References, Trust Issues, Valeting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-02-08 06:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12858321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillonae/pseuds/Papillonae
Summary: Having lost everything to an uprising in his kingdom, Prince Feliks finds himself on the run from those who would have his head for a bounty. With nothing left to lose, he dodges authority and bounty hunters - until years later he is captured by the infamous crew of the Vytis, led by the fearsome Captain Sirot. But when Feliks is brought to his quarters, he cannot believe his eyes: this pirate captain is none other than Toris, his long-lost valet, whom he assumed for dead. Together they find themselves rapidly coming to terms with their diverging pasts while facing the ghosts that linger there.





	1. The Only Thing That's Right

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! This is the very first work I will be posting to Ao3!! It's a piece I decided to start on a whim for National Novel Writing Month (which I'm not going to win, but at least I'm going out with 10k words!)
> 
> I was reminiscing with my partner of seven years about when we used to cosplay and RP Hetalia characters in a "Nationmeeting" group chat with friends. Eventually she branched out and started a Pirate AU with two of our other friends. At the time, I was very self-conscious about small group RPs, so even though the idea sounded amazing, I didn't join. But in my head - I created a pirate persona for my favorite character Lithuania (the character LEAST LIKELY to become a pirate!!!) He was envisioned as a fearsome Dread Pirate of sorts, pillaging and plundering from other pirates. I dubbed him The Great Sirot (pronounced sir-OH) and I thought I was really clever.
> 
> On a road trip, I brought him up, and my partner laughed and explained that she ended up RPing Poland in that AU. In it, he was a dethroned prince who stole horses and was on the run as a criminal. We talked for a little while, building and bridging the two as characters - hypothesizing their past relationship and how they might meet again - and for the first time in a very long time, I became excited about Hetalia and RPing again.
> 
> For the first couple chapters, I've had her help in character development and scene building. Lithuania/Poland is one of our first ships as Hetaila fans (and as a couple who cosplays as them!) so this fic holds a very dear place in my heart. I've always been a Hetalia fan, always seen and loved what the Tumblr community contributes (especially on the Lietpol side of things!!!), and now I'm ready to be a contributor myself! So I hope you enjoy this strange, self-indulgent fic!
> 
> \- Papi

_“Down with the monarchy!”_

_“Death to the King! Death to the Queen!”_

_Outside the large windows of the castle, it seemed as though all the surrounding towns and villages were burning. It glowed a dangerous red, which tinted the sky and blackened the clouds. The ash that harshly rained down seemed, for a moment, like the usual snowfall that would have been drifting around this time of year. And for a moment, in his haste to the emergency corridor exits, the sight of the destruction mesmerized the young Prince Feliks. His eyes grew wide as saucers at the sight of what appeared to be a mob of angry soldiers – most of them villagers – marching through the palace gates, advancing quickly toward the large wooden doors of the palace itself. His hand absently gripped the hilt of his ornately decorated blade. Most of the events that had occurred left him feeling numb, although his nerves wracked his body terribly in his haste. He caught himself breathing quick, shallow breaths in his anxiety, and he forced himself to inhale deeply through his nose._

_He presumed the King and Queen were already preparing to flee with their attendants, while his dearest friends, who were no older than him, were helping him escape through the passageway to the stables. They had gathered what little rations to eat, what comforts they could carry, and what weapons they could use to defend themselves in case the worst came to pass._

_His childhood home was burning, and he hadn’t quite wrapped his head around the thought of never seeing his only home ever again. In fact, Prince Feliks hadn’t even begun to wrap his head around why this was even happening at all._

_“Your highness! We need to keep moving!”_

_He felt a sharp tug at his arm, and he was pulled away from the window. Elizaveta, his oldest friend, was running fast – almost impossibly fast for his mind to catch up with. He managed to stay light and fast on his feet. As they ran, he kept his eyes on the erratic sway of her long brown hair as it whipped behind her like the skirt of a horse’s tail. Behind him he could hear the constant footfalls of his valet, Toris, and the careless clatter of a sword’s sheath as he drew his sword in defensive. He knew his parents had entrusted the two of them with his safety, and there was a gnawing sense of inadequacy that settled sickly in his stomach. In spite of it, Prince Feliks quickened his pace and pushed through all his fears. There was no time for hesitation. He had to run._

Breathe _, he told himself,_ Breathe _. His lungs burned with the effort, a strange chill settling deep in his chest as he willed himself along. Faster, faster…_

_The doors threatened to burst open at the farthest end of the hall, the heaving chanting of the mob echoing ominously outside. “Quickly! Through here,” shouted Elizaveta, and the three of them rounded the corner into the dimly lit corridor where the passage to the stables lay ahead. Once they had turned the corner, the prince heard a brief shuffling against the stone floors and noticed quickly that he could only hear the footfalls and the labored breaths of himself and Elizaveta running. He looked back and watched in horror as his valet stayed behind, standing calmly at the entrance to the emergency passage. At this sight, he planted his feet firmly, which caused Elizaveta to jerk backward in her sprint._

_“Your highness, what are you–”_

_Her queries were cut off as she was jerked forward. Prince Feliks cried out, his voice hoarse, “Toris, what are you doing? Toris – Toris, we have to move…”_

_But Toris kept his back to them, his sword arm held steady at his side. “Lady Elizaveta.” He spoke in an even tone that echoed clearly through the corridor, “I place the prince’s life in your hands now. I must fulfill my duty to protect him here.”_

_Elizaveta stood her ground, pulling her arm back to prevent the prince from approaching any closer. She only shook her head in disbelief, her eyes widening as she realized what it was he meant to do. “You can’t… Toris, that’s suicide…”_

_Prince Feliks’ mouth twisted into a grimace as small, distressing groans began to quiver in his throat. If he wouldn’t respond to the pleadings of a childhood friend, perhaps he would respond better to orders. “Toris!” His voice cracked with anger – no, with fear: “I- I order you to retreat! I am your prince, and you will do as I say!”_

_“My orders are from your mother and father, the King and Queen, and they are absolute.” There was something final and sharp in Toris’ response. The palace doors groaned once more with the weight of the mob as they continued to break it down. The young valet finally looked back at the two of them with an apologetic smile – the same smile he wore every time he accidentally dropped a tray as he was coming from the kitchen – the same smile he wore when he and the prince were scolded by the Queen for playing in her rose garden – the same, sweet, heart-rending smile he wore when he first formally arrived at the palace as a child._

_That same expression now pulled at the young prince’s chest. His lungs tightened and completely froze over. It had never occurred to him that he would be losing Toris, of all people, to this stupid uprising. The thought alone left him trembling in grief._

_“Forgive me, your highness, I can no longer accompany you out of the palace. Lady Elizaveta, please promise me you’ll keep him from harm. I will hold them off for as long as I can.”_

_Elizaveta’s face became hardened; her fierce green eyes glazing over with emotion as she swiftly took Prince Feliks up by waist and slung him over her shoulder with an immense amount of strength. The prince let out a loud, despairing cry as he struggled against her. His cries became frantic echoes, discordantly bounding off the walls of the corridor: “Toris! Toris! You_ bastard! _” His face grew red and sore with the effort, eyes blurring as fierce, bitter tears erupted from them and rolled in giant beads down his cheeks, “Run! You need to run! RUN!_ PLEASE!! _”_

_The prince reached out his hand, jerked himself backwards, and desperately tried to break free as the deafening sound of the mob finally breaching the large wooden doors drowned out his frantic pleading. Elizaveta quickened her strides, tightening her grip on him before she flung the two of them through the heavy door at the end of the corridor. She clenched her jaw shut, her sobs choked and hot in the back of her throat. Pushing all her regrets firmly to the back of her mind, she forced herself to spring into action, draping the prince under her heavy black cloak as she swiftly made the last-minute decision on which horse they were escaping with. The prince made no move to run after he was placed down; the shock was all too much. He dared not drop to his knees, despite how badly his muscles burned and ached. All he could do was stop and look on in despair as Elizaveta blockaded the door._

_The last things Prince Feliks heard and saw were the angry roars of the mob, the glowing light of their torches, and the silhouette of his valet –_ his best friend _, he painfully reminded himself – preparing himself for a losing battle._

_There were no screams left inside him that could have matched the fury or the sorrow he felt as the scene, and Toris, were sealed away forever._


	2. My Lowlands, Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feliks wakes from his sleep as a prisoner on a military vessel, where he and other criminals are to be turned in for a reward. As he reminisces on his life as a runaway, the ship is suddenly raided by pirates. In the confusion he is captured and brought aboard a fearsome frigate known only as The Vytis. One of the pirates singles him out as the one their captain wished to speak with. Too terrified to move, Feliks allows himself to be unceremoniously thrown at the captain's feet, accepting whatever fate lies in store for him...

The sharp jerking of the ship on the waves roused Feliks from his restless slumber. He had been slumped in the corner of the hold, hugging his knees to his chest as to not take up too much space in the crowded cell. He squinted his eyes, still burning from the salt water that was splashed in his face from the night before, and peered through the haze of the sun filtering in through the slits in the upper main deck. As he went to move his arms, Feliks felt the rough and prickly tug of a rope tightly wound and knitted at his wrists. He winced; the rubbing was definitely digging deep into the skin.

 _Right_ , he remembered with a heavy sigh, _I’ve been caught_.

He was being held aboard a military vessel. The prison hold was filled with all sorts of criminals and refugees, each with a considerable reward on their heads. Most of them looked unassuming, while others sat with a quiet intensity that made him feel uneasy. Feliks, himself, had quite the reward: on top of his refugee status as well as his former title of His Royal Highness, Prince of Poland, he also had the title of a criminal to add to his large repertoire.

With a deep-seated resentment he’d managed to internalize after this long voyage, he kept reminding himself that every crime he had committed was done in order to survive. 

Of his many misadventures, including those he shared with Elizaveta after the two made their escape from the uprising almost five years ago, many involved the theft of horses from the stables of taverns and inns they took shelter in. As a young boy, the palace caretakers and advisors had always praised Feliks for his natural affinity for horses and equestrian sports; this talent of his was especially useful for when he needed to tame a stallion or a mare at the last second. Such a gift earned him the infamous moniker of “Horse Bandit.” He smiled to himself at the memory of the first horse they stole from an old tavern stable after several miserable weeks of traveling by foot. They had named him Gaspar, and he was a gorgeous chestnut horse. Though Elizaveta ultimately kept him as her own, Feliks always suspected that Gaspar favored him best for feeding him apples and carrots every single day. _You’ll spoil my horse rotten!_ Elizaveta would always warn him, but he made sure to continuously sneak him snacks when she wasn’t looking.

As he sat huddled in the corner, reminiscing over the most memorable moments in his runaway journey, Feliks wondered to himself if he would ever see Elizaveta again. It had been several months since the two went their separate ways after a particularly heated argument drove him away from their camp. He briefly entertained the idea that, perhaps, he was the one who pushed things too far. Or, away, in his case.

With his hands still bound, the rope still cutting into his flesh, he awkwardly fished for something in his shirt and withdrew an old string of rosary beads – the only item that wasn’t confiscated off his person. Feliks had received this particular one from his mother – the Queen – many, many years ago. There were only two like this one, he recalled: the other belonged to his father. His memory drifted back to one particular day at another Baptism ceremony, and he recalled how he knelt beside his mother and Toris at the dais; the priest, with his hauntingly beautiful plainchant, reciting the Credo; his father, standing before them, smiling proudly as he looped the beads around Toris’s neck…

Feliks forcefully willed himself out of the memory. That rosary was gone. His home and his parents were gone. Toris, too. He always told himself that they were never coming back, but even the nudging reminders still managed to cut through him like a knife.

He heard once from Elizaveta that time heals all wounds. For Feliks, the loss would take him a lifetime to recover from.

His thumb ran idly over the beads, their deep red color shadowed in the growing dimness of the light as shadows passed overhead. Feliks’s thoughts turned wholly to Elizaveta and her safety. He reverently pressed the crucifix to his lips, and mouthed a silent prayer. _God, most merciful, if it is your will, then guide me back to Elizaveta,_ he entreated, _let me see her again and apologize to her. Let me talk to her one more time… take me from this friendless place and bring me comfort…_

A deafening crack of wood broke him from his prayers, and Feliks was thrown out of his corner by a massive force. The rest of the captives in the hold were also thrown back, the conscious ones groaning in protest while those who were knocked unconscious from the blast remained prone. From somewhere toward the bow of the ship, he could hear the sound of water rushing in. Before Feliks could even assess what had happened, he heard the shouts and cries of what sounded like a large group of men from far off. He heard the sound of wood on wood and the clamor of booted footsteps racing toward the main deck.

He shuddered. Pirates were commandeering the boat.

There was another blast, one that landed outside the boat into the water. A spray of water that washed up on deck went dripping down onto those in the hold cells. Feliks immediately sprang into action; his heart raced as he tried to pry the bars apart awkwardly with his bound hands, hoping to make his escape through the chaos. Of course, the structural integrity of the iron bars was still intact, but his sense of urgency rose when he looked down at his bare feet and saw the water beginning to seep in.

“Help! Someone help!” he shouted up, pounding his fists against the walls. The conscious members of the hold also joined him in shouting for help. The raucous noise continued above deck, this time accompanied by the sharp clatter of steel on steel. After making as many cries for help as possible – and with the water beginning to rise over the tops of their feet – they finally heard a rush of footsteps descending to the hold. When Feliks first caught sight of the men, his blood ran cold. These men did not belong to the crew of this boat at all.

What made his heart drop to his stomach was the raising of their eyebrows the moment they made eye contact with him. The shorter man pointed directly at Feliks and turned to his companion. “That’s him,” he said.

The companion pirate nodded, also making eye contact with Feliks, and he grabbed one of the guards’ benches from the corner of the hold. Without realizing it, Feliks found himself backing away from the bars, the cold seawater sloshing around his heels as he went. The pirate then angled the bench legs between the bars, putting all this weight onto the other end jutting out, allowing the leverage to wrench the barred door clear off its hinges and send it clattering uselessly to the floor. The loudness of it caused Feliks to recoil. The smaller pirate shouted up the stairs: “Everyone, grab a bounty from this hold – we start the transfer now!”

While most of the prisoners unquestioningly allowed themselves to be escorted up the stairs and into… God knows what kind of foray, Feliks found himself backing up into his corner of the hold. The pirate that had freed them all entered inside. “There’s no use resisting. You are coming with us.”

“Like hell I am!” Feliks spat. Once the pirate was within distance, he darted toward him, feinted him on one side, and then sent all his strength into his arms as he brought his bound fists down hard on his neck. When he lay there, stunned, Feliks pushed his way past the other pirates and criminals. They all did their best to restrain him, but he managed to wrench his shoulders out of their grasps. He pushed and pushed until he was out on the main deck, the warm and white heat of the sun temporarily blinding him.

When he regained his vision, Feliks’ eyes went wide with shock and his mouth dropped open at the sight. He saw the large frigate under the command of the pirates towering considerably over the modest caravel he was being held in; a sturdy, considerably lengthy plank connected the two ships together. From where he stood, he could hear the sloshing of sea water as it funneled more and more into the hole in the ship. Feliks could see the telltale smoke coming from a cannon on the pirate ship. Looking back in his immediate vicinity, he saw that every crewmember of the vessel that had been on deck before the attack was now lying facedown. Luckily it seemed as though most of them were only knocked unconscious, with only a few lying injured.

He had to suppress a surprised gasp as he uncertainly ambled away from the pirates that noticed his ascent, his wrists still painfully knotted together. As he was being pursued, he lashed out with his bound, fisted hands wildly, but to no avail. He was quickly restrained by two of the largest men he had ever seen in his life. Though he tried to jerk his shoulders out of their grip, their hands were gripping him too firmly for him to even try escaping. When he came to this realization, he released the tension from his body and reluctantly accepted whatever was to come next.

He watched as each prisoner was escorted up from below deck, each being handled steadily by one or two pirates, and marched single file onto the deck of the pirate ship. Feliks was thrust forward, his feet barely touching the ground, as he joined the queue. Within the line he could hear the barking of orders from the pirate ship, and the responses from behind him. Most of his fellow prisoners remained quiet, but a few ahead of him gasped at the height of the ship as they passed below it. Atop the mainmast, a black flag fluttered in the wind. Feliks squinted against the sun, barely making out the image of what appeared to be the head of a wolf and two crossed swords.

The prisoner behind him whispered, half in awe and half in terror, “Lord help us, it’s the _Vytis_.”

Another added, “Of all the pirates to be captured by, it had to be the Iron Wolf what did us in…”

Feliks kept his head low. In all his confusion and fear, he couldn’t help but feel as though he’d heard of an Iron Wolf before, in a memory just beyond his reach…

As he was carried across the plank and onto the deck of the pirate ship, Feliks watched as the crewmembers carried barrels and crates of assorted treasures and trades down into the cargo hold, along with the rest of the prisoners. A few members – commanding officers, he guessed – were waiting at the entryway. As soon as he was close enough, a hand stopped both him and his two escorts. This approaching pirate officer, in question, took a moment to look down at him. “Mister Varganas, what news?” one of the men asked.

Feliks glanced up. There was something about the way this pirate studied his face that made Feliks immediately avert his gaze, his body trembling in betrayal.

After a time, the pirate addressed his escorts: “This one is going directly to the captain’s quarters. See to it that he is handled with care.”

The panic settled in, and Feliks hung limply in their grasp as they carried him up. His hands feebly – and still, awkwardly – reached for his rosary beads. He licked his chapped lips and began to silently pray. His mouth moved quickly; his heart pounded painfully in his chest. With each step up to the quarterdeck, his vision grew darker and darker. Was this it? Was this the end of the line?

One of his escorts opened the door. Inside stood an imposing figure, silhouetted by the sunlight pouring through the windows of the cabin. “Captain Sirot,” he announced with a gravelly voice, “the prisoner you requested is here.”


	3. The Captain Sirot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feliks is brought to the cabin of Captain Sirot. While he is expecting the worst, he finds himself against all odds face-to-face with Toris, his old valet, and his dearest friend. While Toris puts on the bravado of a dread pirate, Feliks challenges his loyalties.

Feliks felt himself being pushed into the cabin – he stumbled forward a few steps before his legs gave out underneath him, and the door slammed shut from behind. He could not move from his spot on the floor, utterly paralyzed with fear. His mouth trembled still with fervent, silent prayer. From what he could see, the cabin was strangely modest and well kept. Only the most practical tools and furnishings were there, with only a few knick-knacks and trinkets here and there: a table big enough to seat two rested at the center of the room; one small corner was devoted to what appeared to be washing (Feliks idly noted the bucket and what appeared to be a parcel of lye soap), while the other corner of the room contained a large, lumpy-looking bed which had been sensibly tucked and made.

He then dared a glance up at the captain. At first, all he could see were the frayed and tattered coattails of his dark coat, the silver buttons along his cuffs glinting. The tricorn hat he wore was adorned with several feathers of varying shades of ivory and indigo. But as he watched the captain’s boots turn, heel to toe, Feliks’ eyes dropped immediately back down to his bound hands as he rolled his fingers over more and more beads of his rosary. The captain’s footfalls were slow and deliberate, though there seemed to be something hesitant in their gait. When the captain finally stopped before him, Feliks held his breath. The prayers that were barely escaping his lips quickened. His body shuddered in anticipation, half-expecting to be roughly lifted by his hair or his arm. 

He hadn’t expected the captain to kneel down to his level, nor did he expect it when he took off his hat and flung it uselessly behind him with a soft clutter. And certainly, Feliks hadn’t expected to feel his hands – those scarred, calloused hands – gingerly brushing against his as he worked to untie the ropes around his wrists.

“I finally found you,” the captain said. 

His voice was low, with a softness and familiarity that Feliks immediately recognized. He stilled his hastily whispered prayers, though his body still trembled with the shock. _There was just no way_. It had been nearly five years. The voice was much deeper than he remembered, but the inflections and the cadence were all the same.

He had to be sure. Mustering his courage, Feliks lifted his pale green eyes up to meet the captain’s and he found himself staring into a hauntingly familiar face.

His throat instantly went dry. It was like seeing a ghost.

Captain Sirot continued, “Your life is safe in my hands.” The ropes around his wrists fell uselessly to the floor, and Feliks lightly massaged the area with his fingertips, still feeling the imprint of the binds on his skin. The captain stood up and offered him his outstretched hand. “Can you stand?”

Instinctively – _unquestioningly_ – he took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. Once he was on his feet, however, Feliks immediately took several steps back and looked Captain Sirot over from head to toe. His dark hair waved and curled along either side of his face like the break of a tide, while the rest of it was pulled back into a low ponytail. He could see the flash of a satin blue ribbon that tied it in place. A dark cloth bandana was wrapped around his forehead; the tails of it lay over his shoulders – they were broader, but not much broader than his own. Feliks searched his face, squinted his eyes in suspicion as he traced an unfamiliar scar along the bottom of his chin and studied the familiar angle of his nose.

The captain’s lips tugged into a half-smile as he was being examined. “Please, have a seat,” he offered, gesturing toward the table at the center of the room. Feliks’ feet moved on their own toward one of the chairs as he watched Captain Sirot walk over to a cupboard to retrieve a foggy sea glass bottle with a dark liquid inside. He also slipped his fingers around the handles of two goblets and brought them back to the table. It was when he was wriggling the cork out of the neck of the bottle that Feliks found the voice to speak:

“ _Toris_.”

The captain froze, his expression brightening up. He lifted his head to look at Feliks, his own green eyes smiling – though his prisoner did not return the smile. “That is a name I haven’t heard in such a long time…” he admitted with a soft laugh.

Feliks stood there for a while, still in shock. His own eyes widened in recognition, his lips twitching as he searched for something else to say. So this really was Toris he was seeing… or was it? He pressed himself, dared himself to say something else. “S-so… what are you supposed to be now?” he blurted out, his lips now curling up into a hard, mocking smirk, “the _Dread Pirate Laurinaitis_?”

There was an awkward silence. Feliks’ grin began to falter. He was just about to wave the comment away, ready to take off running out of the cabin, when he saw Toris’ shoulders moving slightly with laughter. He raised his hand to his mouth to muffle the sound slightly. The sight pulled at Feliks’ chest with a weight he hadn’t felt in so long.

“I’m sorry,” Toris apologized. The cork was pulled from the bottle with a soft popping noise. “And I suppose ‘Horse Bandit’ a new title to add to your list?” he asked in response. Feliks immediately cast his eyes down, his face falling as he carefully took a seat, stealing glances at the captain as he poured the contents into the goblets. Toris almost seemed to nod in understanding, pushing one of the goblets to Feliks. “It’s going to be alright now, you’re safe,” he said, gesturing to his entire cabin before taking the opposite seat.

Feliks took the goblet, examining the contents: from the nose of it, the drink smelled of a very dry wine. His eyes flickered back up to Toris, who was also testing the nose and the taste. Sitting with him in the cabin still felt like an incredibly surreal dream, and no matter how he adjusted himself, he just couldn’t stop his hands from shaking...

He took a moment to process his current thoughts, and how alarming they were. Namely that, for the first time in years, he didn’t know how to start a conversation with this person – with _Toris_ , his most loyal, faithful, dearest companion. If anyone told him four years ago that he would feel this incredibly uncomfortable around his own friend, he would have laughed at the very notion. The years they spent apart seemed to stretch like a desert between them, all dunes and wind-whipped hills erasing their footprints, or _any_ proof that at some point they must have walked together. This felt almost like talking to a stranger. And it terrified Feliks to the point where a wringing sort of pain began to clutch at his stomach.

Fortunately for him, Toris was the first one to break the awkward silence. “From what I hear, you’re worth a hefty sum right now, but you don’t have to worry.” He raised his goblet to him, nodding before taking a drink. “There is a reason I’ve adopted the ‘Iron Wolf’ nickname around these seas. You remember that story, right?”

Feliks held his pointed gaze on him steady and did not respond.

“It was from the time we shared those stories about our homelands… don’t you remember?”

Still no response.

Toris gave him a cautionary once-over before he averted his eyes, looking instead to change the subject. “I understand you’re worried about the crew, and about that bounty on your head. As long as I persuade them that I’ll be keeping you as my personal servant, you should have no problems until we reach shore—”

Suddenly, the goblet Feliks had before him had been tossed off the table, rolling on the floorboards of the cabin. The wine spilled and stained them blood red. He abruptly stood up, palms slamming down on the table, his glare piercing through the captain.

“Just drop the act.” Feliks bristled. His face bloomed a bright red, his eyes narrowing with a chaotic sort of anger. “I don’t see or hear from you for _five God-damned years_ , and now you’re a _God-damned captain_ of a _pirate ship??_ ”

Toris sat there in shock, his eyes trained on every movement. Feliks continued, now pacing around the table, arms gesticulating wildly, “A-and now you’re just - casually having a _drink_ , and telling _stories_ , and- and _catching up_ , and coming up with a _plan_ , as if none of this is a problem or anything!”

He spun himself over beside Toris, who began backing out of his seat as he was approached. He didn’t get far, however, before Feliks cornered him. His voice sliced through, slick with venom: “You keep going on and on about how _safe_ I am, but how do I know you won’t just hand me over? You’re risking a mutiny, captain, and I _know_ my bounty would be able to feed your crew for _months_.” He gathered a fistful of the collar of his buccaneer coat, pulling Toris’ face down to his level. “So just who the _hell_ are you trying to fool here? Where do you stand?”

Feliks was well aware of the trembling of his legs. His flinty stare captured Toris’ full attention – but what softened it was the absolute confusion and hurt that was reflected back at him.

Toris carefully reached over to touch his hand, the one that pulled at him so desperately, but Feliks flinched and released him, stepping several feet away. It took every inch of resolve within him to keep his knees from trembling or buckling underneath his weight. He steadied his legs and bore his stare into Toris, inclining his chin, challenging him to answer. “Well, _captain_?” he dared again.

That gaze did not falter when the pirate at last stepped forward, his face suddenly very serious, with another emotion behind it that Feliks couldn’t quite read. Soon they were mere feet apart from each other, staring, carefully trying to choose the right words. But when Toris provided no immediate answer, Feliks clenched his teeth and turned away, his heels pounding on the floor.

That was when he heard the creaking of the floorboards and a soft thud behind him. Feliks stole a cautious glance over his shoulder, and then turned himself back around slowly, staring down in disbelief. He found Toris, now this great pirate captain and notorious dread pirate of the seas, kneeling reverently before him with his hand dutifully guarding his heart.

It was just like the day they first formally met, he noted with a pang of nostalgia. Then Toris looked up at him and smiled just like _that_ – and Feliks felt himself coming undone. His knees finally gave out, and he knelt down on the floor with him. Images from five years ago instantly flashed before his eyes: the darkness, the red glow of his kingdom on fire, and Toris smiling back at him in apology, his sword hand ready – _always_ ready, to defend him.

He didn’t need the words; the affirmation was there. Feliks hardly noticed it when one small tear rolled down his cheek in astonishment.

“…I thought you were dead,” he finally said, choking a little.

The tears came in waves, each streak down his face made more prominent in the light of the hazy afternoon. Toris slowly shuffled onto both his knees and promptly wrapped his arms around Feliks in a long overdue embrace. Feliks observed how much smaller he seemed in that moment, a thought that brought up a loud sob from deep in his chest. He leaned eagerly into the hug and pressed one of his fists firmly against Toris’s shoulders. “'Veta wouldn’t let me go back for you… I wanted to, I swear I did…” His shoulders shook violently as he wept for the first time in what seemed like ages. He’d spent what felt like an eternity of running, and only now, being back with his valet – his _companion_ – did he feel as though he could give that life a rest for a while. He was home. He felt Toris’s arms tighten around him, holding him securely as if he were something fragile.

“I never wanted to leave you back there…” Feliks's voice trailed off softly, muffled into Toris's shoulder.

Toris’s hand gently rubbed his back, hushing him while the other cradled the back of his head. “I was the one who told her to take you away from there.” He grimaced, casting his eyes up at the rafters as he also fought back some emotion. “I never meant to worry you. Please forgive me.”

Feliks gripped tighter at his coat. “Why are _you_ apologizing?” he choked out, his voice breaking, “I thought I’d gotten you _killed_ …” He wanted to keep rambling, wanted to get it all out there, but Toris hushed him again, smoothing the back of his flaxen hair. With a passing thought, Feliks was almost amazed at how very familiar this feeling was, being back in Toris’s arms as they rocked together on their knees. He buried his eyes in his shoulders again, wiping his face as he did.

Toris gave him another gentle squeeze. “Your highness, I truly meant it when I told you that your life was safe in my hands.”

Feliks pushed away from him and reached up a stern hand to rake through his hair, ruffling it slightly. This drew a small grunt of protest from the pirate captain. “I’ve _told_ you not to call me that,” he reminded him with a sniffle, despite smiling to himself at the nostalgic title. He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his other palm and released his fingers from the tangle of hair. “And besides,” he added, “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I’m no prince anymore…”

This caused Toris to turn his gaze down to the floor. “Forgive me,” he murmured, which brought another rough hand to his head.

“Stop apologizing,” Feliks said in a half-laugh, half-sob, before letting his head drop back onto his shoulder. He breathed in his scent: the lingering, briny smell of the ocean, a mustiness he did not recognize, and yet despite all of that, he was amazed to find that he still smelled very much the same as ever. Feliks remembered the same scent on his bed pillows as a child, back when they slept together as children. Those were the days when he would wake up to Toris's peaceful, sleeping face in the early hours of the morning.

Feliks heaved a shaky sigh and pulled Toris closer to himself. In response, he was once again hushed. Toris rested his cheek on the top of his head, his hands firmly holding him in place as they rocked on their knees once more. This was real. Toris was alive. Feliks thought to himself about how he would be the one to protect him this time, and how he would be the one to stop him from trying to leave him behind again… 

And yet, another thought quickly interrupted him. How much had Toris changed during the years they were apart? How much had he _himself_ changed? What if he was being deceived? He recalled the moment he saw him for the last time… what if those feelings had changed? What if that loyalty had wavered in any way? 

He did his best to push those thoughts aside, though they lingered like an ominous haze in the back of his mind. In this moment, deep in the comforting scent that brought him back to his memories of home, Feliks managed to convince himself that this was all that mattered. For now, he allowed his heart to be full.

His valet, his dearest friend, _his Toris_ was back. And heaven be damned if anyone tried to take him away again.


	4. Look To the Gentle Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback sequence. Prince Feliks meets Toris for the very first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I would like to thank you all - guests and users alike - who took the time to glance over these first three chapters! And thank you so much, for those of you who gave kudos and bookmarked this fic! I really appreciate any feedback, and I am definitely hoping to update more after the holiday season. I work retail as my day job, so it's been very difficult trying to find the time to write - but I work on it little by little every day.
> 
> It sure does feel like a cop-out to have a flashback sequence in the middle of the more plot-centric chapters, but at the same time, I am a huge fan of them, mainly because I love taking a break from heavy plot every once in a while for a character and world-building scene. (Also, I'm very bad with transitions...)
> 
> I did add some new tags to this fic, because as I was writing this chapter I became VERY aware of how much of a parody this fic is!! Some obvious inspirations include Pirates of the Caribbean and The Princess Bride, of course... and I'm sure they won't be the last references I make...
> 
> I also learned recently that, while I am absolutely not planning on historical accuracy with "Your Horizon..." at all, Piracy was definitely a thing around the Baltic Sea in the Middle Ages! And we mostly have the Vikings to thank for that! I actually did take that into account during my RP sessions with my partner without referencing it, so I'm actually feeling pretty impressed with myself!
> 
> Timeline-wise, I'm not sure where this scene fits??? If you really wanted to try and place it, maybe it's pre-Union of Krewo??? Again, I'm not going for historical accuracy, and I don't claim to be an expert in Eastern European Middle Ages History... I mean, the King and Queen characters are totally fictitious, and these are AUs of Poland-Lithuania anyway...
> 
> Once again, thank you to those of you who are reading along and to those of you who are just stumbling into this fic for the very first time. :) I'm glad you're here! And I'm always open to criticisms or to talk about whatever in the comments!
> 
> \- Papi

_A large crowd had gathered along the outskirts of the village when the Royal Family, surrounded by their palace guard, went out to greet their people. The King and Queen were seated on the backs of two white horses at a gentle canter. While the Queen rode sidesaddle and graciously greeted them with the gentlest wave of her hand, the King straddled himself atop the back of his stallion with a bright smile, his strong arm supporting the balance of the young prince as they rode together._

_Prince Feliks was no more than seven years of age when he was first formally introduced to his people. It was the first time he’d ever worn such a fancy tunic: it was a white one, the color of lilies, which was adorned with gentle pearl embellishments that caught the warmth of the sunlight and complimented his flaxen hair, which fell at a delicate bob just below his earlobes. A blood red cape spilled loosely over his scrawny shoulders. Admittedly, the roughness of the fabric made his neck itch something fierce, and the sleeves of his tunic restricted his movement only a little. He felt very stuffy and trapped, especially sitting astride the horse in his tight leggings and uncomfortably poofy trousers._

_As they rode through, his eyes darted from face to face. Something frantic began drumming in his chest as he realized he couldn’t quite register any of their expressions or features. He tried to smile, but his vision blurred so badly that the most he could manage was a curt nod with hair falling in front of his face. The King let out a soft sort of chuckle from behind him, and he felt his large hands hold him steady on the saddle. It wasn’t until he was being readjusted that he’d realized how much he was trembling._

_“Just take it easy, my son,” the King said in a low voice, handing him the reins, “sometimes, when I get nervous, I try to look beyond them.”_

_He looked up at him in wonder. “Father, you get nervous too?”_

_The King smiled. “Of course I do. It’s not easy being the monarch of an entire kingdom, you know.” He glanced over at the Queen, and the young prince noticed her glancing back at them both with a serene expression. “That is why I am so thankful to be ruling with your Mother at my side,” The King continued, “she has a natural way with people. And that means I need to try harder to connect with people, too.”_

_Feliks began to knead the leathery strap of the reins in his hands. He looked away from the both of them just to study the feeling. “But what are you supposed look at when you’re outside the village? There’s nothing but rye fields out here…”_

_The King clapped his hand on his shoulder, which only knocked him slightly off-kilter, and he leaned down close to the prince’s ear. “Ah, but have you actually_ looked out _at the rye fields, my son?” he asked quietly, “I think you’ll find it almost as calming as looking out at the sea. Let’s watch together.”_

_Prince Feliks looked out with the King at the fields behind the villagers. His eyes slowly took them in - have they always stretched out that far beyond the kingdom? There was a light breeze that picked up and he watched keenly as the golden grain bent to the wind like the ripple of a wave. He tucked his hair behind one ear, eager to listen as a gentle susurration swept through the grass and tickled the dry wheat. Waves and waves of gold rolled lazily behind them, and Prince Feliks was nearly hypnotized by it…_

_But suddenly – a movement in the field that was not the wind caught his eye. It seemed more like a jagged interruption of falling stalks and a small sort of stumbling. At first, he was ready to dismiss it as some sort of wounded animal, but it was only when he caught a faint glimpse of a human-like shape moving through the field that his heart began to race._

_Without a second thought Feliks shoved the horse’s reins back into the King’s large hand and pushed himself off the saddle. He fell to the ground with a clumsy scuffle. Heedless of the dirt and grass stains on his knees, and of the telltale ripping of the seams of his tunic sleeves, he took off running toward the sight. The crowd gasped and parted as he stumbled through._

_“Feliks! Get back here this instant!” The King called after him, but he did not look back as he shuffled into the field. He took handfuls of the stalks and pushed them behind him, partly walking and swimming through the rye, his nose perking up at the familiar scent as it was carried on the wind. His eyes were fixed forward in his search. Something, no, some_ one _needed his help, and it wouldn’t have befitted a prince to leave someone behind. That was what the King had taught him to do… right?_

_When he finally stumbled upon the clearing, he immediately jolted backward. His hand, now splintered with light prickles of wheat grass, flew to cover his mouth as he stifled a cry of surprise._

_Before him was the body of another boy draped in a thick fur cape and tattered vestments that were dirtied with mud and soot. He lay face down in the field, his hand outstretched and grasping to continue. Prince Feliks willed himself to the boy’s aid, his hesitation fleeting as he knelt beside him in the grass. He could see that the boy was trembling with the effort to get back up; he could hear a strained grunt as he tried – and failed – to push himself up into a crawl. Upon closer inspection, he could see how bruised and bloodied his knuckles were… and also how dark and wet one spot on his head appeared to be. With a careful curiosity, Prince Feliks slowly reached his hand toward the tangled, greasy mop of brown hair and grazed his fingertips over the dark, glistening spot._

_The boy hissed in pain and immediately jolted from his position. His body failed him halfway and he ended up falling on his side, panting heavily through gritted teeth. Prince Feliks leaned away; he shuffled a little in his kneel, but kept himself stably on one knee. He first looked to his fingertips, which were now streaked with a telltale smear of blood, before his gaze returned to the boy. He was immediately drawn to his eyes: intense, wild, fearful eyes the color of the evergreen trees on the distant hills. His bottom lip was cut wide open. The young prince noticed how the blood was caked down the other boy’s chin and was still fresh and running down from his temple._

_“Y-you’re hurt,” he said dumbly, his voice barely above a whisper. He could feel himself involuntarily blushing at the sound of his own stutter. The boy’s eyes never left Prince Feliks’ gaze. He pursed his lips and attempted to get back up, but with a whimper, he flinched and slumped back onto the ground. On reflex, the young prince sprang forward and held him steady. He looked back over his shoulder._

_“S-Someone! Help! There’s a boy! He’s – he’s hurt!” It took all the breath in his lungs to carry his voice over the ears of grain that rolled over them a little more wildly now, and he prayed that at least one person heard him. As he turned his attentions back, his eyes caught a glimpse of something further off in the distance. The sky had been clear and cloudless since they first rode out, but from beyond the borders of the village he saw dark clouds spilling out through the sky like oil…_

 

No _, he corrected himself, his eyes widening in shock as the scent of the south-blowing wind wrinkled his nose:_ that was smoke…

_Not too long after he’d called for help, the King and a few of his men stumbled into the clearing, almost heedless of the young prince and the injured boy. “Lord have mercy,” the King breathed as before their eyes they watched as the neighboring territory smoldered in the distance. Several large smoking, blackened ruins where hillside villages and forts used to stand marred the landscape._

_“It’s the neighboring duchy,” one of the men confirmed. The prince looked up and saw them all crossing themselves, their faces furrowed in both parts sympathy and dread._

_Another attendant spoke: “Was it another raid?” Another responded bitterly, “Those bandits will stop at nothing, will they…?”_

_Only the King’s expression hardened. “Send out scouts to the nearest raid sites. Search for any survivors. Any threat to a neighboring land is a threat to us. I shall speak to the council immediately on the matter.”_

_Before he turned to leave, Prince Feliks spoke up. “Father, about the boy—“_

_The King turned back briefly, scanning both his son and the fallen child. “Take him to the Queen. Your mother will tend to his injuries.” With that, both the King and his men rushed back out of the field, and the young prince could only watch as their silhouettes disappeared between the tall stalks._

_There was a faint whimper coming from the boy as he attempted to push himself up off the ground again. Startled, Prince Feliks snapped his attention back to him. The boy was now studying him through eyes squinted from ache and exhaustion. It caught him off guard, though he tried not to let it show. “D-Don’t cry!” he blurted out, as if the words were pulled roughly out of him. At the boy’s quizzical head tilt, Prince Feliks looked away in embarrassment. He stood himself up at a crouch and awkwardly offered him his hand._

_“…Can you stand?” he asked._

_The boy’s eyes squeezed shut as he reached for his hand, grasping it tight. As the young prince pulled him to his feet, the boy drew in a sharp breath before he stumbled forward, a sudden yelp escaping him as his right leg involuntarily buckled beneath him. Prince Feliks managed to react in time, pulling the boy’s arm around his own shoulders to help ease the weight off of his injury. He felt himself tense up as the boy’s fur cloak brushed against his cheek and he quickly wrapped another supportive arm around his torso. Prince Feliks glanced sideways at the boy, making sure that he was no longer in an immense amount of pain before they cautiously took their first, limping steps out of the field together. The ears of grain hissed against their bodies as they went._ _Prince Feliks focused on backtracking, following the places where the grain bent toward him, carefully moving slowly so as not to re-injure his newfound companion._

_“…Where am I?” The boy asked, breaking the long swath of silence that had passed between them. The question came weakly; the pain was so intense it was causing him to cry, though he seemed determined to bear with it._

_Although he felt anxious, being so close to a stranger who was his age and badly hurt, the young prince swallowed hard and managed to regain himself long enough to offer him a sideways smile. The nerves were still there, but somehow it was different than before – almost like excitement. He could hear his recent conversation with the King, still fresh in his memory:_ Try harder to connect with people…

_“This is the Kingdom of Poland. You are safe here.”_

_“But—”_

_“Don’t worry… Prince Feliks of House_ _Łukasiewicz_ _is watching over you.”_

_Upon hearing his full title, the boy’s eyes widened. In spite of his injuries, his lips pulled painfully upward into a slight smile, although his gaze quickly shifted back to his feet as he concentrated on keeping his injured leg elevated. “Y-You have my gratitude, your highness,” he said quietly, fumbling over the words._

_Prince Feliks frowned at the boy’s sudden formality. “That won’t do,” he muttered, “you’re_ my _age…”_

_The boy kept his eyes down, as if he were afraid to argue. The young prince bit his lip. “Wh-What are you called?” he asked awkwardly, trying to make small talk. It was then that the boy lifted his head and their eyes meeting once more. His hair clung to the sides of his face in curls, slicked with exertion and blood._

_“I am Toris, your highness. I am the first-born son of the Laurinaitis family.”_

_“Well Toris, first-born-of-Laurinaitis,” Prince Feliks said with a grunt, readjusting his arm as they finally stepped out of the field together, “if you would permit me to call you just ‘Toris,’ then please feel free to call me ‘Feliks.’”_

_“Certainly… b-but your highness, I couldn’t do that—“_

_The young prince stopped and thought on it. “Then it’s an order. Call me by my name.”_

 _For a moment, the two of them stood there in the clearing glancing over at each other. Toris’s leg was held at a slight limp and he clung to the prince for balance. Prince Feliks could feel how he struggled to keep himself upright, and he slowly readjusted himself. Finally, he gently took Toris’s arms and, turning his back to him, pulled them over his shoulders. “Hop on, Toris. I’ll carry you...” He bent and braced himself, holding his hands out to take his legs._

_At first, there was some hesitation, but soon Toris clumsily complied and, with much fussing, he was soon riding piggyback atop of the young prince. He was heavier than Prince Feliks had anticipated, but he grit his teeth and began the long walk back to the Queen’s attendants. He could feel Toris’s hands, uncertain and trembling, finally securely gripped around his shoulders. Soon, he was made very aware of his new acquaintance as he rested his chin on his left shoulder. Prince Feliks could smell traces of smoke still lingering on him._

 _“Thank you… Prince Feliks,” Toris mumbled._

_The young prince felt his face grow warm and said nothing more, a secret smile blooming across his face._ It was a start _, he thought, though he didn’t think too much on it. After all, this Toris Laurinaitis was a boy from the duchy, and he was certain that he would never see him again after he recovered from his wounds. But still, part of him hoped that he would stay. It was lonely being without too many peers his age, let alone the other boys in the village who were too afraid to approach him. As he carried Toris on his back, unknowingly carrying the boy who would later become his closest and dearest companion, Prince Feliks could not shake the feeling that this moment would be the start of a new chapter._


	5. The Skeleton Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perspective switch: Captain Sirot addresses the crew, and makes it clear that the prisoner in his cabin is to remain at his side until they reach port. Feliks becomes distrustful after his performance, and Toris must once again try to regain his trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I apologize for all the long waits in-between! I'm still sort of recovering from the holidays, both in my personal life and with my day job.
> 
> At first, I was unsure of how to tackle these new scenes, but as this is an experimental "first major fanfic with a grandiose plot," I will warn you that I've switched up the perspective here. So far I'd been writing things from Feliks's perspective - here we'll get a glimpse into what Toris has been thinking. I was also unsure about uploading this as two different chapters, but...
> 
> Ah - I feel like I'm cutting corners... please forgive me!
> 
> In lighter news, the next two chapters will not be too far behind! I'll hopefully have them up before I leave for vacation on January 25th! :) One is another flashback sequence (and a very light-hearted one that I'm IMMENSELY proud of!) So that's something I'm looking forward to sharing with you!
> 
> Once again, thank you for taking the time to read this strange little fic! Your kudos and occasional comments have been really nice, and I'm really looking forward to sharing more of the light-hearted, humorous parts of the story in upcoming chapters!!
> 
> \- Papi

The skies over the sea turned warm and lazy shades of rose and orange as the sun made its descent under the horizon. There was a milling about at the main deck where Captain Sirot and his quartermaster, Mister Varganas, began to gather the crew to celebrate their recent victory at sea and to discuss the spoils of that endeavor. His crew, though small, was made up of formidable folk: many of them were hardy to the colder climates and were equally as resilient to the blistering heat.

Before he was ever a captain of any ship, Toris heard whispers about the bandits that frequently attacked his homeland – the same attacks which claimed the life of his mother. When they fled, she was the one who tackled him to the ground when the whistle of a dozen arrows flew over them. If she hadn’t shielded him then, he would have also met with her same fate; he would have never carried his bruised and battered body across the stretch of rye to seek refuge in the neighboring kingdom, let alone be taken in so willingly by the royal family themselves…

Toris would later come to find that pirates led those attacks – though the exact term they used for themselves was foreign to him at the time. In his childhood, when he was educated as an emissary between the Duchy of Lithuania and the Kingdom of Poland, he recalled how quietly the matter was discussed between the King and Queen and the elders of the Lithuanian dukedom. There were many times he felt their eyes on him, as if they were looking at something he couldn’t quite see for himself, and it left him feeling uneasy— 

He was jostled out of his reminiscing by Mister Varganas, who had just linked his arm around his shoulders. “Captain,” he said with a jovial smirk, ocean-colored eyes looking over at the rest of the crew, “I believe we’re ready to begin.”

The crew of the _Vytis_ were mostly from the northern lands, and it was through them that the word finally found Toris again: _vikingar_. Vikings. 

He adjusted his tricorn hat as they all stood around him in a half-circle. Captain Sirot took a breath, and addressed them all with a wide-toothed grin as the first mate began to pass around the celebratory tankards of ale.

"Well done, men! Excellent work. It warms this iron heart of mine to have such a faithful crew as this!" bellowed the captain, which was met with equally as robust laughter from the crew. Captain Sirot continued, laughing in a boisterous way, "Every last one of you will receive your own share of the loot, you can be sure of that!" There was an eruption of cheers at that remark; tankards clattered together as finally the last one was handed to the captain himself.

"Aye captain, you’re too kind.” Mister Varganas clinked their tankards together. “And I suppose that goes for those bounties below deck?"

The captain laughed, clapping a hand on the first mate's back. "Aye! For all the bounties below, the reward will be combined and redistributed to all the crew."

There were even more cheers at that, as well as scattered laughter. But one of the crewmembers - a larger man, one of the two men who were the last to leave the pillaged ship - raised his attentions to the captain. "And what of that Horse Bandit?"

Mister Varganas turned to him. "What of him?"

Rolling his shoulders back, the man gave the captain a hard look. "I noticed he was not among those in the hold when I fed the prisoners this evening... might our great Captain Sirot be withholding him from us?"

Captain Sirot released his grip from the quartermaster, shrugging his hand away. There was something equally as hard in his gaze, though years at sea had tempered his stare like a blade. With a chuckle, he stepped forward, opening his arms as if to invite this new challenge. "And you expect me, a gentleman of high esteem, to let such a pretty prize spoil in a cellar with the dogs?" He took one large stride toward his crewmember, his posture imposing and his movement deliberate. For a moment, the challenger quailed once he saw the expression of the captain up close, though he did not break his stance. The rest of the crew watched, almost fearful, as their captain pointed fiercely up toward the direction of his cabin.

"That _man_ ," he said in a slow, loud voice, enunciating with the pointing of his finger, "is to remain in my cabin as my personal servant until we reach port. His attitude toward authority needs improving. You will all receive your share of his bounty then."

The suspicious crewmember’s companion from the earlier raid chimed in, nudging his shoulder. "You remember - he did fight us on that ship before we outnumbered that crew, he knocked Jan out clear as day, an’ we had to carry him off the ship with the rest of the prisoners.” He then nodded up at Captain Sirot with a knowing smirk. “If anyone can teach a little whelp some respect, it's our captain." After considering this, the challenger crewmember backed down and went back to nursing his drink.

"Anything else?" Captain Sirot barked, looking around at the rest of the crew. His voice made a few flinch, but all avoided his intense gaze in the silence. With no other objections, he relaxed his shoulders and gestured to them all in a flourish. "Then carry on, men! Tonight, we celebrate our good fortunes." He took his tankard and raised it high. "To fortune!" The response was deafening and buzzing with excitement.

* * *

When the celebrations reached their conclusion - with most of the crew retiring to their quarters below deck - Toris slipped back up to his cabin. When he finally closed the door behind him he sank against it and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

A singular, slow round of applause greeted him when he arrived.

"Quite the performance you put on out there," Feliks said from where he was seated on the edge of Toris's desk. There was something tense in his words, and cruelness in his half-smile.

Toris pushed himself up from the door, running a hand through his own hair. "You heard all that." It wasn’t a question so much as a conclusion. He was unable to meet his gaze.

Feliks raised his eyebrows, pushing himself off of the table. "Funny thing about pirates," he said, "an obnoxiously loud voice seems to come with the job."

"I'm sorry."

Toris took a seat back at the table, kicking his feet up and leaning back as Feliks gave him a non-committal shrug, falling silent once again. They stayed that way for a while. It had only been a few hours since the raid, and he thought that he had proven himself an ally to the young prince – the _former_ prince, he sullenly corrected himself – but now it seemed that he had alienated himself more. He frowned as he watched Feliks pace over toward the window away from him. It had been nearly five years, so the hesitation was understandable, but even when they were young and had gone months without seeing each other, they would always fall back into conversation as if no time had passed. There was a lot unsaid between them; the tension was palpable. Was it the same for Feliks? Toris figured he would be happy to see him again – hell, the very notion of seeing him again was something he never thought possible after a long time at sea – but was that all?

Toris sighed, rocking slightly before settling all the legs of the chair on the floorboards. It was a decisive gesture. Anything to break the silence. "Let's take a walk out on deck," he suggested, a new energy in his voice, "it's a nice night outside..." Feliks turned to look at Toris from his place at the window. There was something cautious in his posture, as if he were caught off guard, but he then nodded in agreement.

The answer brought a secret smile to Toris’s face. He rose from his seat and strode toward the door, his eyes never leaving Feliks, as if to make sure that he was following him out. He opened the door expectantly, and it was here that Feliks hesitated.

"After you... _captain_."

Toris frowned at his cold response. "Can we... forget that right now?"

When Feliks nodded guiltily and looked back down at the floor, Toris felt a heaviness weighing down on his chest. After his earlier performance, he couldn’t exactly blame Feliks for not trusting him. This was his friend, a very dear friend, and he had to go on about _selling him for a bounty_ , of all things, to keep up appearances in front of the crew.

Ignoring the ache of the distance between them, Toris managed his sincerest smile. “Come with me.”

* * *

 

The two of them walked out onto the quarterdeck. The evening hung in the air with a pale blue hue cast over their faces. The bo’sun sat aloft in the crow’s nest; even with the warm lantern light from his post illuminating part of the main deck, he was unable to see the captain slip out of his cabin with their latest prisoner. 

Feliks’s bare footsteps hardly made a sound as they made their way toward the side of the ship. Toris immediately felt a twinge of guilt at seeing him still in such old clothes. In their youth, Feliks was always dressed in finery: bright, vivid colors (he remembered how red was one of his favorites) and softer whites that painted him as something almost divine. He slowed his stride, took off his coat, and gently draped it over Feliks’s shoulders. There was a look of surprise on Feliks’s face before he reached up and pulled the coat tightly around himself. He mumbled a small word of thanks in response, but otherwise remained quiet.

The two of them folded their arms over the railing and looked out over the sea. This was the view that Toris had wanted him to see: the moon hung in an infinitely black sky, stars freckled in the cosmos above them… the same lights, which could also be seen reflected in the surface of the water, twinkling with each ebb and roll of a wave. The gentle lapping of the water at the side of the boat and the hush of faraway waves accompanied the view. It was a very calm evening.

"Okay, you were right," Feliks admitted, looking out at the water.

Toris looked over at him. "Right about what?"

Feliks smiled warmly to himself. "It's a nice night..." His eyes were still fixed on the water and the reflection of the moon. 

There was something about his expression and the way he said it that made Toris’s breathing become shallow. Something he hadn’t felt in such a long time began to resurface –something like a stirring or a flutter of his stomach – and he smiled into it. “Hey,” he began quietly, testing the waters between them, "do you remember when we used to sneak out at night and look up at the stars from the fields?"

A smile finally found it's way onto Feliks's lips. It was surprisingly genuine. "Of course," he said with a nod, glancing over at Toris, "in fact, I remember the first time we snuck out when we were little.” It was with a cautious ease that he made a teasing expression. “You were so scared, you wouldn't let go of my hand."

Toris laughed softly, suppressing it so as not to wake up the crew. He faced Feliks fully. "I wasn't scared. We weren't supposed to be out that late. You insisted." 

Feliks's grin widened a little "Of course I did," he said, raising his eyebrows. "And you were definitely scared."

Finally, Toris relented, also grinning ear to ear. "Okay, maybe I was a little scared. The King and Queen were always doting on you, and I didn't want you to get in trouble then."

For an instant, Feliks's smile seemed to falter and something sad touched his eyes. He shook it off quickly and turned his attention back to the water. "That's true," he said, "if we'd gotten caught, I would have just said it was your idea."

"And I would have gone with it."

"Yeah probably..." Feliks murmured. His tone was suddenly casual, almost indifferent. The smile had been chased away from his lips.

 

Toris clenched his jaw, struggling to say something - anything. He looked out at the water, as if he could find the words there. As he did so, he leaned against the railing. There it was – it was brief, but it was a moment of ease. It felt as though he’d finally made contact with his dearest friend… but lost him again in the blink of an eye. Toris breathed a sigh and abruptly turned away from the sea. 

"Feliks, I—"

As he turned to look at him, he realized that his old friend was already looking back at him. The sight was almost startling. Feliks was also leaning against the rail beside him, his chin cradled on his hand as he looked up into Toris's eyes. It seemed as though he were trying to see something - or see _through_ something - as the moonlight was reflected in the shine of his wide eyes.

Toris also realized it was the first time since rescuing him from the last ship – since the first time since they'd been separated - that he'd ever spoken his name out loud, all formalities forgotten. The night was forgiving enough to hide the reddening of his cheeks.

And still, Feliks was staring at him, now more curiously than ever. He said nothing and waited for Toris to continue.

He cleared his throat. It was hard to breathe with him staring like that. Toris tried to remember when exactly he first began to feel that tightness in his chest. He finally spoke: "I feel like… I'm living a double life. Pirate captain by day, a masterless servant at night…" Toris looked down at his hands. "I want you to believe me when I tell you that the person you remember… your friend… is still here."

He lifted his gaze again, finding Feliks' eyes with his own. The moonlight highlighted their shape; his eyebrows were turned upward and his smile was meek. "I really... _really_ missed you."

Feliks did not look away, though he wore an expression Toris hadn’t seen him use in quite a long time… _shyness?_ He was familiar with how Feliks used to behave when they were first acquainted, all nervous laughter and overcompensated gestures, but the way his brow was pinched was worrisome – even the crookedness of his lips was troubling. Had he said the wrong thing? 

"...I missed you too," Feliks said at last. It was a quiet confession. Toris doggedly ignored the familiar flutter in his chest.

"Seeing you here like this... I guess it's just hitting me that there's a lot about you I don't know..." Feliks sighed, gesticulating with his arm at nothing in particular. "I mean, it's been what - nearly five years?”

"It feels like longer," Toris admitted, a bit crestfallen. "I can't even imagine what you've been through in that time..."

As he said those words, he recalled memories of places that he’d done his best to keep at bay: _a stone cold floor seen from the perspective of one lying against it, small living quarters meant to be shared by three or more men, a rope clutched decisively in his hands, gaunt legs hugged tightly to his chest as the bath water turned red all around him…_

Toris looked back down at his feet, thankful for the night as he felt the heat from his face drain away. He could still feel Feliks’s eyes on him. "Let's head back inside," he said after a lengthy pause, “we should get some rest. You've been through hell today.'"

"And still trying to find the way out,” Feliks said sardonically, grimacing, “and we both know I have a terrible sense of direction…"

"It's alright, I've spent a lot of time charting with this crew.” Toris gently put a hand on his shoulder and gathered himself up enough to offer a reassuring smile. “We'll figure it out. I promise."

Another unreadable expression quickly appeared on Feliks’s face. He nodded in understanding as he followed Toris back inside the cabin.


	6. Wolves of the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toris speaks with Feliks about how he became Captain Sirot, while Feliks revisits the emotions he keeps trying to suppress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... clearly I am terrible at sticking to deadlines...
> 
> But! Here is the latest chapter! I may go back and rewrite the previous one, just to keep in consistency with the main POV - and I wouldn't mind getting some feedback about that! But this will be the last double upload in a while. This chapter, and then ANOTHER FLASHBACK (I'm very fond of these, and at least this next flashback sequence is a fun one ;) )
> 
> I also noticed that YH has reached 100 hits! For those of you who have been reading this - thank you! I really appreciate your taking time to peruse this rather ambitious project! I hope you continue to read and enjoy!

The lights from the oil lanterns flickered as the cabin door swung shut behind them. It was hard for Feliks to make out the finer details of the captain’s cabin in the dim lighting, but it was enough to illuminate a small cartography desk by the entrance: ribbons of maps and charts were piled on top, weighed down by a sextant and a compass. There was something like drapery in the far corner, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was.

He watched carefully as Toris stretched himself out, averting his eyes when the taller brunet looked back over his shoulder. Even after he’d been reassured, even after he’d seen… _something_ in those eyes of his, Feliks still felt a gnawing sense of uncertainty, and a familiar heat that prickled at the apples of his cheeks. He’d felt this somewhere before; he _swore_ he’d never feel it again, especially after he’d believed Toris to be dead. Yet, even under the most innocent of glances, Feliks could certainly feel the weight of Toris’s careful watch.

Feliks raised his eyes once more as Toris hung up his coat and motioned for him to follow. Standing parallel to the captain’s bed was a small, vertically standing wardrobe with two smaller drawers at the bottom for what Feliks could only assume was folded clothing. He remembered how meticulous Toris had been when they were younger, and how odd it struck him that while the other boys their age never exercised the same discipline and patience, Toris would have rather spent his leisure time organizing everything: books, clothing, tableware… even in his adolescence, Toris kept his weapons in order. The memory made him smile. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _he hadn’t changed too much after all these years_.

Toris looked back over his shoulder at Feliks with a keen stare. "If you'd like, I have plainclothes you can borrow in case you get cold," he offered.

Feliks frowned a little, looking down at his clothes, which admittedly had seen better days. "I'm not really cold, but I wouldn't mind changing," he admitted with a nervous laugh.

Toris smiled. "Please, help yourself." He opened the door of the wardrobe, pausing only to look Feliks up and down with a look of consideration. "We're… still about the same size, right?"

"No. You're still taller than me." Feliks’s eyes flickered up at him flatly with his lips curled into a frown. His voice held the same tone of annoyance it had when they'd been much younger having the same semi-argument.

Toris laughed softly, though he tried to stifle it into the back of his hand. "I'm sorry, I’m sorry."

Feliks shot him another deadly glare.

Clearing his throat, Toris reached down into the bottom drawer and withdrew an armful of light sheets of fabric for bedding. Then he stepped away, allowing Feliks to take whatever he wanted. His attentions were now turned toward fixing up the small area by the cabin window, which turned out to be a small daybed. He piled on and folded the sheets over the cushions, tucking them in with careful attention.

As Feliks began to look through his clothes – not really caring what he found, so long as he could change out of what he'd been wearing for the past week – he found himself also looking for answers.

"Can I ask you something?" he ventured, pulling his shirt off over his head as he glanced over at Toris.

"Yes?" Toris inclined his head to show that he was listening.

Feliks hesitated. Was this the time to ask? Was this the right thing to ask? His face tightened, scrunched up in apprehension. “…How did you end up out here?" The question came out softly; he was almost afraid to ask.

Toris slowed his work, patting the last wrinkle out of the sheets. He did not turn around to meet Feliks’s eyes. "After I asked Lady Elizaveta to take you away from the palace, I was captured by the uprising." His voice was calm, unexpectedly steady as he continued to tuck the corners of the sheets under the daybed cushion. "I was branded a royal sympathizer, but because I was still young and a prisoner, I could be sold and put to work. I was a servant for the longest time."

Feliks watched Toris as he worked. It had been years since they shared stories with each other, let alone caught up with each other like this, but he still knew what those inflections in his voice meant. It was as if this story was rehearsed many, many times for the past five years. His throat tightened up as he tried to speak. "... I'm sorry," was all he could manage.

Toris looked over and gave Feliks a small smile for reassurance as he continued. "After my contract was up, I was sold to an empire in the north. One evening, invaders from the Baltic Sea attacked the Prince’s men, and in all the confusion… I ended up aboard their Viking ship.” He took a seat on the newly made daybed, resting his elbows on his knees. “But I was treated much better on the sea with these Vikings – these _pirates_ – than I ever was in that palace. The captain and his crew taught me everything I know."

“Funny how things work out,” Feliks murmured. He looked down at the ground, not sure what else to say. He shifted his focus back to changing his clothes, wincing as he moved to put a new shirt on.

"The captain was a man the crew called Captain Fenrir,” Toris continued, leaning forward in his seat, “he was a very strong, very intimidating man. Some of his crew told me that he once killed a man just by looking at him. He was _that_ kind of pirate.”

Feliks pulled the spare shirt over his head. “Sounds terrifying... did he give you any trouble?”

Toris stifled a small laugh. “Well, he didn’t pay me any mind at first, since I was brought on as an extra deck hand. But on one unremarkable day, he approached me. I don’t recall how it happened, but we began to talk about our homelands – our myths and legends, our customs, our people. And I learned that Captain Fenrir had taken his own name from a legend.”

“What was the legend?” Feliks asked, now genuinely curious. It had been a while since Toris had told him about the legends he would read about, though he admittedly would only retain a few elements of the story before he got restless. Still, Toris’s infectious enthusiasm made Feliks feel a little nostalgic, and he had _very much_ missed the way Toris spoke about his beloved stories. 

Toris smiled over at him and sat up straight, resting the palms of his hands on his knees. He summarized the tale with a glint of delight in his eyes: “The legend was about a great wolf named Fenrir, who was tricked by the northern gods into an unbreakable fetter made from fabled materials. They bound the wolf because it was foretold that he would kill the wisest of the gods someday during a time where a great battle would destroy the world and bring about a world reborn.”

Feliks hastily pulled up a new pair of britches. Even when summarizing, Toris was still just as engaging. “So why didn't they just kill the wolf if they knew he’d kill one of them?” he asked.

Toris replied, “Because the gods respected their sacred grounds and sanctuaries too much to taint them with the wolf’s blood.”

“Of course,” Feliks nodded, laughing awkwardly. 

Toris returned the laughter. “Captain Fenrir told me that he was living a life at sea as the unfettered wolf, ready to devour the world and take back whatever he could. We found common ground there, and we spoke often from that day forward.”

Feliks untied his hair, shaking it out slightly until it hung in a wavy, uneven bob just above his shoulder. “You spoke to him of the Iron Wolf then,” he guessed.

“You still remember me well,” Toris said with a sentimental smile. The way his eyes seemed to soften produced a peculiar flutter in Feliks’s stomach.

“So you shared stories – then what?” Feliks asked quickly, averting his gaze.

“He helped me sharpen my skills. I started sword training again. He eventually made me one of his quartermasters. And as I grew to know the rest of the crew, I realized some of them were also from the territories near our lands – some were even from my own duchy.” Toris seemed to remember something particularly pleasant in that moment. “My own quartermaster was one of those crewmembers. Mr. Varganas was the first friend I’d made on that ship.”

Feliks paused in the middle of rolling up his sleeves, wincing slightly as the fabric rolled over his rope burns. “Wait – hold on, so most of your crewmembers now... were from the crew left over from this Captain Fenrir’s ship?”

Toris nodded. “That’s correct.”

“So, _this_ ship, the _Vytis_ … he just _gave_ you this ship?”

“Yes.”

Feliks raised an eyebrow. “What happened to the old captain?”

Toris began to laugh softly. “There was one day where we were under attack from another viking ship. They were a formidable crew, and they eventually bested most of us in battle. When Captain Fenrir demanded to duel the captain for his ship, we all watched as a young man dressed in silks and jewels stepped forward to challenge him.” His eyes glanced upward as he tried to recall the events. “They dueled for quite some time. They were both fierce duelists, evenly matched. But there was this… look of realization on Captain Fenrir’s face… and we all watched as he tossed aside his sword, approached the young captain… and knelt before him in total surrender.”

“Was it because this guy was strong?” Feliks asked.

“No,” Toris replied, looking notably sheepish, “it was because the minute Captain Fenrir laid his eyes on him, it was obvious to us that he was enamored with the youth.”

Feliks blinked. He hadn’t expected such a turn in the story. “Oh.”

“The captain was a young man they called Jarl Väinämöinen.” Toris rose from the daybed and crossed the room toward the area with the washing basin, continuing the story as he went. “He and his crew spent their time aboard our ship gathering information from our cartographers. While he was there, the young jarl also realized that Captain Fenrir’s legendary glare was mostly from his poor eyesight – so he was fitted for spectacles.”

Feliks nearly burst out laughing. “A fearsome, blind wolf!”

Toris fished out a small sea-glass bottle from the basin, and crossed back over, also chuckling at the remark. “But after that, Captain Fenrir ended up abandoning his viking name, took himself and most of his crew on board the young jarl’s ship, and he left the rest of his legacy – the ship, a few members of the crew, the title of captain – to me.” As he sat back down with the bottle, rolling it between his hands, he looked back over at Feliks and quietly laughed. The look in his eyes seemed suddenly very sincere. "It’s amazing, how much love can change a person like that… to make them take up a new life…”

Feliks could hardly breathe, let alone form a coherent response other than an awkward smile and an audible swallow at the lump in his throat. “W-well,” he began with a trembling, laughing voice, "you seem to make a great captain..."

"Thank you." Toris popped open the bottle and began to pour some of the contents onto his hands: a salve. "But – ah, forgive me! I feel like I spoke too long about my own adventures…”

“Ah – no, it’s alright.” Feliks lightly rubbed at his rope burns with his thumb. “It has been a while…” He watched as Toris worked the salve onto his hands, almost hypnotized at the motion. His thumbs absently traced underneath his fingers.

“I... don't mean to pry either," Toris started, his voice quiet, his eyes never leaving his own work, "but I was also wondering what happened to you after we got separated…" 

Feliks sighed. He hadn’t had _that_ many exciting adventures… well, not that convincing horses to follow you across kingdoms and lands while the lawmen chased after you for stealing horses wasn’t exciting. "I spent a lot of time on the run," he said finally. "That, and learning that Elizaveta and I don't exactly see eye to eye on most things.”

Feliks looked up from Toris’s hands, only to find that Toris was already studying him. It caught him off guard, and he turned his gaze upward. “Still, it wasn't our choice to split up, even if we weren't on speaking terms when it happened…"

Toris nodded solemnly. “I'm sorry you went through all of that.”

Feliks forced a laugh. The smile that came with it was familiar, but less than genuine. “Well, you know how I am. I'm amazed she didn't turn me in herself."

Toris gave him a look of concern. The wrinkle of his brow only deepened at the disingenuous laugh. He took the bottle of salve, applied a little to his fingertips, and offered his hand to Feliks. "Here," he said quietly, standing up and walking over to him.

Feliks looked confused for a moment, but then looked down at his own wrists. _Ah._ It was almost as if he hadn't noticed, or had grown used to whatever pain they might be causing him. Toris knelt before him, wordlessly guided Feliks' hand into his own, and he began his work, gingerly rubbing the salve over each rope mark. Feliks had winced at the initial contact, sucking breath in through his teeth, but he relaxed slightly a moment later.

His eyes were fixed on their hands: his had been scraped at worst, but they were still just as thin and neat as they had been even before his life of crime. He saw how Toris’s hands had their own scars and scrapes, callouses that had been smoothed by the concoction already…

The next hand was done with much more care, so much care that Feliks almost forgot himself. His eyes flickered between the gentle rubbing of the salve onto his rope burns and hands, and to Toris’s face as he worked. His face was so calm… and there was a small trace of a smile there. Feliks felt goose bumps all up his arms at the sight and a small prickle of heat nipped at his face.

As Toris began to slow his rhythm, Feliks reached out another hand and clasped it on top. For a moment, neither of them moved, and they both stared down, reluctant to move. Feliks slowly cast his gaze up at Toris, where their eyes met just as Feliks’s mouth hung open, about to thank him. 

He trembled at the evergreen of his gaze. Even after so many years, those eyes – that touch – still felt like home. Feliks wondered, carefully, _just what did Toris make of him…?_

 

It was Toris that broke the moment, sliding his hand out from under Feliks’s. He hastily looked down and away. “It's getting late...”

Feliks pulled his hands away completely and crossed his arms self-consciously over his chest. He also dropped his gaze. “Right...”

Toris offered him a tired, almost apologetic smile. “You can sleep in the bed tonight. It seems like you could use a long rest.”

Feliks returned the look. "...Thanks," he said, almost embarrassed.

"We can talk more tomorrow. After I help the crew set sail." Toris walked over to the daybed, and hoisted himself into a comfortable laying position.

Feliks followed suit and lied down on his own borrowed bed. He nearly sank into the cushioning and half-wondered how on earth Toris ever got a decent night’s sleep on this. But with the encroaching fatigue, Feliks didn’t have much room to be picky. He immediately rolled over on his stomach, half hiding his face against the pillow.

" _Dobranoc_ , Feliks," he heard Toris say softly from the daybed. 

Feliks looked over to see him smiling. He returned the smile before he could help it.

“ _Dobranoc_ , Toris," he replied, and closed his eyes.


	7. All Good Things Come In Threes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback sequence. Prince Feliks and Lady Elizaveta make a bet.

_The smell of the freshly reaped fields carried all throughout the kingdom. As the vast rows of rye began to dwindle into flattened earth, sheaves and stooks gathered in almost geometric rows, the laborers began to gather what they could. The young Prince Feliks watched them from his stool at the stables, his gaze lingering a little too long on the scene outside before he’d realized Elizaveta was staring at him, a knowing look playing across her face._

_“Your highness?” she asked, finally grabbing his attention._

_He blinked and turned back to her sheepishly. “Sorry,” he apologized with a wave of his hand, “I was distracted for a moment… please continue.”_

_Elizaveta tilted her head, puzzled that he hadn’t corrected her for calling him by his formal title. Nevertheless, she continued her story as she brushed out the mane of a sand-colored halflinger._

_“But can you believe that? I know I’m of marrying age right now, but I’m telling you – the choice of candidates around here are very slim. And there is no way I’m going to marry someone like that Gilbert boy who keeps stalking about the village just to challenge you or Toris to another duel.”_

_She picked out some straw from her hair and pouted to herself. “Boys are stupid, Feliks. I’m never going to fall in love with one. No offense, of course.”_

_There was some sort of mumble of acknowledgement, though truthfully Feliks had only been half-listening. His eyes had already wandered back outside to the fields, where all the young field hands had been diligently gathering the harvest. His full attention was there, his chin resting on the back of his thin, long hands as his elbows rested awkwardly on the windowsill. He looked deep in thought as his eyes followed a small group as they began to load the sheaves onto a wagon._

_Feliks trained his gaze on one of them in particular as he spoke with the others and laughed along with them. He could see how the sweat on his brow caused his bangs to stick to his forehead. Feliks took caution to avoid looking at the way it also caused the thin fabric of his shirt to cling in wet pleats against the curve of his back (an effort which brought a prickling heat to the young prince’s cheeks and what he – still an awkward, adolescent virgin – might entertain as impure thoughts swiftly crossing his mind.) Even the way his field hand’s face and hands were streaked and caked with soil seemed somewhat more appealing from his window, and Feliks arched an eyebrow in appreciation as the laborer finally wiped his brow with the back of his hand, still smiling and laughing along with the others as they loaded up another stook._

_After a time, Feliks heaved a long, almost wistful sigh. “I don’t think… it would be so bad to fall in love with a boy…”_

_Elizaveta turned her head toward him. She was unable to help the impish smile that tugged at her lips. “My, my,” she teased, “are you telling me that you’re madly in love, good Prince?” A small giggle escaped her lips as Feliks’s eyes widened in shock upon realizing what he had just thoughtlessly blurted out loud. He fell out of the stool he sat precariously on, falling with a thud on the stable floor. The heat had risen up to the tips of his ears._

_“I-I didn’t mean for it t-to come out like…” His voice cracked a little, which only added to his distress. “I-It’s not like anything would come of it,” he sputtered, desperately trying to hide his face in his hands, “I mean… in the Word of the Lord… the d-desires of the flesh are sinful and— and wrong… and I don’t want to become s-some sort of sodomite—”_

_Elizaveta rolled her eyes. “Alright, Your Highness, you keep on with that kind of talk, and you_ will _become some sort of sodomite.”_

_She climbed out of the horse pen and began to make her way over to help him up. “Listen, I don’t know a lot about your God, but from the way you talk about Him, it sounds like He accepts the bonds of love just fine.” She offered him her hand and hoisted him up to his feet effortlessly. “Also, what would you know about –that– kind of thing anyway? It’s not like you’ve had the experience.”_

_Feliks’s face darkened in color. “W-well, it’s not like you would know anything about it either...”_

_A same shade of pink brightened Elizaveta’s own cheeks. She cast her eyes up at the rafters as she pieced together her thoughts. “From what your God says, isn’t all of that kind of… er, sinful, anyway?” Her face narrowed into a puzzled expression, almost as if she were repulsed at the idea._

_Feliks seemed intrigued by this line of thinking. “I guess?” He kicked at a pile of straw on the ground. “According to God, it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman – if you’re not looking to sire children, then it’s a sin.” He retrieved the feeder bag, casually filling it with fresh oats._

_Elizaveta took it from him and proceeded to loop the bag’s harness over the horse’s long face. “So, the way I see it,” she summarized, securing the bag as the horse began to shift its head to eat, “it might be wrong in the eyes of your God, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t unnatural, right?”_

_Feliks hummed thoughtfully. “Well, we are all supposedly sinners in all the parables…”_

_“So if that’s the case, then who cares if you have desires like that? Just focus on the love part of it, and the rest is all secondary.” Elizaveta took the opportunity to smirk his way, jabbing him with her elbow as she crossed to look out the window. “And besides, Prince Feliks, you’re still young to be thinking about those kinds of things…”_

_He laughed, clutching his ribs where she bumped him. “Oh, and you’re at the right age?” Feliks joined her at the window and the two of them looked over once again at the farm hands._

_Elizaveta laughed softly as she scooted over to make room for him. “Well, they say that girls mature faster than boys do…”_

_She was about to go on when she caught the sight of the prince from the corner of her eye: how his gaze seemed to naturally focus in; his brows relaxed as the faintest smile softened his expression considerably, a tint of rosy red blooming over his cheeks. She noticed how even and calm his breath was, even as he propped his chin up on his hand. It was the telltale image of someone in love._

_She looked over at the fields with him, tracing the path of his vision. When she found the offending target, everything began to click into place, and that smile of hers curled into a wicked grin._

_Elizaveta chuckled softly. “Though, I have to say… given the circumstances, our Toris has matured very well… wouldn’t you agree, Your Highness?”_

_The way Feliks flinched, his face burning a bright scarlet in response, only confirmed her suspicions, and she laughed good-naturedly at his expression._

_“’Veta, I swear to God…” He stiffened, his voice cracking as he clenched his teeth._

_As he slipped his face behind his hands, Elizaveta pulled up a barrel and heaved herself up on top of it, using it as a seat. “What? You’ll swear to the same God that tells you your feelings and desires are wrong?”_

_He briefly glared at her before casting his gaze quickly to his boots, his eyes unwillingly welling up as his hands hovered uselessly away from his face._

_Elizaveta held up her hands in defense. “Hey – hey, I’m sorry… I crossed a line there…”_

_Feliks trembled on the spot, still refusing to acknowledge her._

_“I’m sorry,_ fivér _, come here…” She opened her arms expectantly, motioning him over._

_Feliks looked up at her this time, his lips stretched taut across his face as he failed at blinking back the tears, and he walked obediently into her arms, resting his eyes on her shoulder as she folded her arms over his neck._

_“You should tell him how you feel,” she suggested in a soft voice. She smoothed out his hair and gingerly picked out small stalks of hay from behind his ear._

_“I can’t tell him,” Feliks mumbled._

_“Why not?”_

_“Because if I do that… everything will change between us… and I don’t know if I’m ready for that…” A shuddering sigh shook him. “What if… what if he rejects it? Rejects_ me _?”_

_Elizaveta pulled him away and looked gently into his eyes, smiling in reassurance as she wiped away his tears. “Oh, Feliks, I don’t think you need to worry about that.”_

_All too often, Elizaveta would walk between the two of them in a single-file line and look back at Toris – uncertain and eager, much like a puppy – and the longing glances he would cast at the prince’s vacant side as he lead them on. She remembered themselves as children… and when she first met Toris. He always lingered behind, but never too far from the prince. It brought a new sort of smile to her face, full of sweetness and nostalgia._

_“I get the feeling that he fancies you, too,” she added knowingly._

_Feliks’s returning smile was a clumsy and embarrassed one, squished lightly between her hands on his face. “Come on, he probably feels indebted to me,” he said dismissively, “after all, I was the one who found him by himself when we were kids. Also –” he paused to reach up and pull a stalk of hay from her hair as well, “– he still refuses to call me by my name, so I don’t think he even sees me the way I see him…” He looked down at his hands sadly, watching his fingers break apart the stray hay stalk._

_Elizaveta gave it all another thought. She decided that her initial hunch about boys was right. Girls did mature faster, especially in brains, and it was obvious that these two boys hadn’t the faintest idea._

_“Feliks, let’s make a bet,” she suggested out of nowhere. When he looked back up at her, she clasped her hands on either side of his arms. “And we’ll make it a three-fold bet, okay?”_

_“Why three?” Feliks asked._

_“Because all good things come in threes,” she replied with a secret wink, tapping him lightly once before letting him go._

_Intrigued, Feliks pulled up his stool and sat properly before her with a cautious grin. “Okay, so what’s your wager? What are the conditions for this bet of yours?”_

_Elizaveta grinned back at him. “Three silver pieces. I wager one silver piece that I’m right and Toris does return your feelings—” she held up her hand before Feliks could retort that Toris did not, in fact, have feelings for him, “— For the second silver piece, I wager that you will be the one to tell him how you feel before he does.”_

_Feliks nodded, laughing nervously all the while. Though he disagreed with all of it, these sounded like agreeable terms. “And the third bet?”_

_Before she opened her mouth, a sudden thought struck her. “Your highness, I will award you all three silver pieces… only if you are the one to initiate the first kiss…” Elizaveta’s smile was positively impish, one that only grew as she successfully interrupted Feliks’s smug façade._

_“What kind of condition is that?” he asked, voice cracking under pressure, his face a brilliant shade of crimson, “You can’t just change the rules like that!”_

_She laughed in response. “It’s my bet, and I’ll do as I please. What do you say?”_

_Feliks thought about it for a moment, touching his lips as he mulled it over. It was a bet that, in the best-case scenario, he would be incapable of losing. In the worst case… he pushed the worst case to the back of his mind. “And if none of those terms are met?”_

_Elizaveta shrugged. “Then I’ll pay Toris if he kisses you first,” she replied confidently._

_Feliks opened his mouth to retort, but he went back to thinking. Maybe someday, this bet would come to fruition… in the absolute best scenario it would work out this way – and wouldn’t it be hilarious to see Toris looking confused with his hands full of silver?_

_His eyes then flickered back to her decisively, an enthusiastic fire in his eyes. “I accept – but only if you agree to my own conditions.”_

_She arched an eyebrow at him. “You name it.” She hadn’t expected him to recover in such a way, and she leaned in toward him as he whispered his conditions:_

_“Regardless of whether or not the first three conditions are met, if you do end up falling in love with a boy, ‘Veta, you’re buying drinks for all three of us.”_

_Elizaveta blinked, surprised at the notion, before she busted out howling in laughter. Her arms cradled her sides as she rocked forward on her barrel. “Of course! But don’t be disappointed if I don’t have a gentleman suitor before you do!”_

_Feliks also began laughing along with her. They could see from the window that the field hands outside were beginning to file back into the palace gates in small rows, all of them chattering and singing labor songs as they passed by the stables._

_Feliks extended a hand to Elizaveta. “Do you agree to these terms?” When she regained her breath and wiped her eyes, she firmly grasped his hand and shook it once._

_“Your highness, it’s a bet.”_


	8. Treasures and Troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feliks learns a little more about the kind of person Toris had become, and discovers a few treasures - as well as some disconcerting thoughts.

Feliks drifted in and out of sleep the whole night. His borrowed bed was more comfortable than trying to sleep huddled in the corner of a ship with a rope around his wrists, and he was more than grateful to Toris for letting him borrow it. Still, the creak of the ship as it rocked in the waves – the wet murmur as they lapped against the sides – was enough to keep him from nodding off entirely.

With nearly a week of captivity on one ship, and long time on the run before that, he’d learned that it was often better to keep himself still and listen to his surroundings. Feliks kept willing his eyes shut when no danger presented itself, and every so often he would fall back into the comfortable silence of sleep with the rhythm of the ocean rocking him ever so gently back into the warmth of the bed. 

In the early hours of the morning, he could hear a hasty sort of stirring across from him – a small startled gasp – and a winded sort of breathlessness. Feliks kept his own breathing even as he listened. He laid in the bed, curled in a tangled ball of sheets, his arms hiding his face from view. With his eyes squeezed shut, he kept himself still as he heard the sounds of Toris waking up.

It had been a while since the two of them shared a room. In his childhood, Feliks had been a heavy sleeper, so he almost never heard Toris get up out of bed to prepare for the day. He was always waking up, bleary-eyed and groggy, to the gentle insistence of Toris’s hand rocking his shoulder and calling his name. In his mind’s eye, Feliks could see Toris as a child looking down at him with a soft smile and a voice like a song. He recalled other mornings where Toris woke him up with a taut lip and a worrisome kink in his brow, his rousing a little rough and desperate; Feliks remembered other mornings, where he was met with Toris’s flat expression and an eye roll, a memory that made him smile.

Feliks listened to the rustling of the sheets and a small creaking as Toris rose from the makeshift bed. His footsteps were heavy and slow. There was a light rustling of fabric, the dull thud of what Feliks could only guess were boots.

For a few moments there was silence, save for his own breathing, and he thought he was alone. Feliks nearly opened his eyes, but at that moment he heard Toris walking away from somewhere near his bedside, the scrape of the cabin door opening and closing, and then a silence so hollow and profound. Now he was finally alone.

He opened his eyes and looked over at the unmade daybed. It seemed as though Toris had become a little less orderly.

 _Or perhaps_ , Feliks thought, as he remembered the urgency in which Toris woke up, _he’d become more restless_.

Feliks closed his eyes again, and a long-lost sleep enveloped him.

* * *

 

“Raise the mainsail!”

The commanding voice of Captain Sirot rose above the rush of the waves. An alarm bell was rung, and the white noise of the crew milling around outside came slowly into focus. As the men began their daily rhythm, their hauling punctuated by the voices of the captain in a series of calls and responses, the _Vytis_ \- once dormant and at the mercy of the sea's current - began to stir and sail once again.

Feliks grudgingly opened his eyes to a blinding film of sunlight. His ears had been tuned in to the noises outside for a while, and though he’d debated trying to fall back asleep, he knew he would be unable to now. He stretched out his arms and decisively slipped out of bed with a small shove. Feliks then tiptoed carefully around the cabin, looking at things here and there, trying to get a better feel for the kind of person Toris had become in his absence.

Toris had always been a practical kind of person; Feliks could see how his quarters reflected that part of him, and he noted it with a small smile on his face. In the morning light he noticed the dried herbs that had been hanging along the window near the daybed, which overlooked the main deck: sprigs of dill, laurel, marjoram, thyme…

When he and Elizaveta traveled on and off together, they often foraged for herbs to support her livelihood as a traveling apothecary. She taught him all about medicine and cooking, and in exchange he taught her to ride and to fight (Though admittedly, Feliks felt like he was learning from _her_ when their swords crossed.) The memory of those days left him with a bittersweet feeling, and he swallowed at the involuntary lump in his throat. 

Crawling up onto the daybed, his knees wading through the blankets, Feliks reached up to touch the dry lavender sprigs and felt the buds crinkle in his fingertips. He watched the crewmembers tying up the last of the rigging, as others went below deck. Among those heading below was Toris, accompanied by the quartermaster, Mr. Varganas. Feliks quickly ducked out of view as he saw the two of them turn in his direction, and he hastily scrambled out of the unmade daybed in a tangle of blankets.

Once he’d freed himself, Feliks wandered over to the wash area at the far corner of the room. He looked into the basin to find other types of bottles - some with labels, and others with mysterious liquids. _Medicines? Oils?_ There were also washcloths of various sizes, though he only gave them a passing glance before he returned to the bed. At the very least he was going to make the bed up, he was the last occupant after all, and a temporary guest at that. 

As he tucked the sheets back into order, something else kept grabbing his attention: on a small crate that was propped up beside the bed, placed behind the sea-glass bottle of salve left there from the night before, was a small wooden box with ornate carvings at the top. His eyes kept wandering back to it – he hadn’t remembered seeing it the night before, though there was a lot he’d missed in the dim lighting and the chaos.

Curiosity - as it always seemed to, in spite of the countless warnings from everyone throughout his life - got the better of him. Feliks took the box up carefully into both of his hands, wondering what Toris could be keeping in there. It seemed strangely out of place in a room that had almost no personal effects at all. With a decisive breath, he opened it.

Inside the box, lined with faded emerald green velvet, were only a few small trinkets: two satin ribbons of scarlet red and black and other various trinkets and coins that seemed to carry little importance. Curious still, Feliks leaned in a little closer, examining each item with the attentiveness of a craftsman. He stole a quick glance over at the door, just to make sure no one was about to burst in, and carefully pushed the ribbon and a few trinkets aside to discover a brass circular pendant on a chain. He carefully pulled the pendant out to take a closer look. There was a groove alongside the edges – _a locket?_ Feliks ran his thumb over the decorative detailing. He couldn’t quite place it, but somehow the pendant seemed familiar…

There was a small button at the top of the pendant and Feliks pressed into it, which caused the locket to pop open to reveal a glass compartment. There were some small pieces set in glass: one large red poppy flower, a scattering of little yellow blooms (which Feliks knew grew outside of the rye fields near Toris’s homelands), and small ear of rye curled delicately inside.

 _Home_.

Feliks stared at the flowers for the longest time. The sight of the locket filled him with the heavy ache of nostalgia. His mind wandered back to memories of his mother and father, and he was overcome with missing them. He had long given up hope on their survival from the uprising, on ever seeing them again, but if Toris was able to somehow resurface, then maybe—

Heavy footfalls plodded up the steps to the captain’s quarters. In a complete frenzy, Feliks tucked the locket back into the trinket box and slapped it shut only moments before the cabin door swung open. Blessedly, Toris didn’t seem to notice anything suspicious as he came in with a bucket of water he just drew up from the side of the ship. He smiled upon seeing Feliks up and about. "Morning," he said, the sun catching the sheen of sweat that glistened on his forehead. "Sleep well?"

Feliks nodded and he took a seat back on the edge of Toris's bed, trying not to look too suspicious. "And what about you?” he asked, giving him a once over, “you were up early…"

"I'm used to early mornings." Toris placed the bucket down, then reached back outside the threshold and pulled in another bucket full of water. "Here is some water to wash up with… and I also took up some breakfast, in case you're hungry..."

Before he could answer one way or another, Feliks's stomach made a loud noise of approval.

Toris laughed and retrieved a basket with a knotted cloth from outside the cabin door. "Right, then you can go ahead." He placed it on the table before Feliks and untied the cloth, revealing a pile of bread, a wedge of cheese, and one link of sausage.

Feliks got up and carefully picked at the food, mostly to keep himself from gorging on it. He watched as Toris carried one bucket of water over to the basin area, took a washcloth from the basin, dipped it in, and then took the damp end to his teeth. Was this how he kept himself clean? He shuddered at the thought, though he couldn’t have said his life of the run was a hygienic one…

“Help yourself to whatever you'd like,” Toris called from the other end of the room, “I will be over here, attempting to wash up.” He took up the small parcel of soap that had been on the floor beside the basin and knelt before it.

Turning away from him to give him some privacy, Feliks took another glance around the room. In the daylight there were even more things about the room that he had missed from the night before. The cartographer’s tools were still there on the desk by the door, just as he remembered, but it was the drapery that caught his eye – two faded, war-tattered banners bearing very familiar designs. He was unable to take his gaze from them. _What were they doing here?_ He placed the heel of the bread back into the basket and stared transfixed at the images on the banner.

Though tattered, the banners still held their bold images: on one, a crowned white eagle, while the other bore a white knight riding on a white horse, his shield a striking blue with a double-cross emblem. _The Royal Coat of Arms_ from both of their lands – Toris’s and his. The naming of the ship after his dukedom’s coat of arms was a sign: _Vytis_ , Feliks remembered, _so that was the proper name_. But with the state of their lands' union unknown, and barely any trace of their home left on the maps, Feliks wondered how Toris had come across such a treasure.

He turned to ask about it, but what he saw left him frozen.

Toris was naked and kneeling at the basin, facing away from him as he took the lathered soap to his hair, lingering suds still slipping from his shoulder blades. The years of work on the sea definitely showed: he bore a sun-tanned complexion, and there was definitely more definition to his muscles than he remembered. He saw something dark hanging from his neck, though from behind he couldn't quite make out what it was...

But what had silenced Feliks and kept his eyes fixed on him were the numerous, large white scores of scars that interrupted the smooth of his skin, all of them angrily crisscrossing and marring the surface of his back.

As if he’d seen something he shouldn’t, Feliks quickly turned away and decided to say nothing.

_Who did that to him?_

Feliks’s first thought turned to pirates – but he remembered Toris from last night, and how fond his memories of Captain Fenrir were.

There was something else he’d mentioned... indentured servitude. Were those wounds from those times? Had he been punished for trivial things? Feliks thought back to all the times when Toris was new to the palace, dropping dishes and breaking them on the cold kitchen floors for the first months of his stay. He was scolded by the maids, sure, but not whipped. _Never whipped_ …

Something both fearfully cold and angrily hot began to build inside his chest all at once. The more he thought about it, the more it vexed him. Feliks balled his hands into fists just to keep from shaking. His thoughts were cyclical and maddening – _if he ever found the person who hurt Toris – his Toris_ —

"I have washing water here for you if you'd like to freshen up," Toris said, suddenly at his side and fully clothed again.

Feliks snapped out of his own thoughts, and looked up at him: Toris’s shoulder length, wet hair was slicked back and dampening his shoulders. He smelled very faintly of honey.

"Here." Toris handed him the bar of soap with a gentle smile. "There are extra washcloths next to the water bucket."

Feliks took it, reflexively smiling back. "Thanks.” He took another look at the palms of his hands where his nails left small half-moon imprints. He shrugged it off, then got up and picked up his own bucket of water. “I have to admit, Toris, you're probably the cleanest pirate I've ever met.”

Toris chuckled. “If our maids taught me anything, hygiene is definitely the one thing they carved into me.”

The phrasing made Feliks shudder, especially after what he’d seen, and he laughed nervously in response. He turned his thoughts to the memory of the two of them as children, coming home muddied and scraped, and the fuss Toris used to make as they were both scrubbed in the bath together. He pulled off his shirt and lathered the soap.

“That's definitely not a bad thing… I can't tell you what I'd give for a hot bath lately...” he said wistfully as he cleaned himself, shuddering at the cool of the water.

Toris laughed softly. “You and me both.”

Feliks wrung the extra saltwater from the washcloth onto his back and shivered. He stole a glance back at Toris. “Those banners,” he said, nodding a little toward it as he rinsed himself, “where did they come from?”

“My crew found them at a marketplace some time ago.” Toris gave him a light smirk. “Look familiar?”

Feliks rolled his eyes. “Of course. It’s just a little surprising seeing them here.”

“I’ll say. I thought every reminder of our homes were gone…”

“Me too… but I’m glad to see that you still carry some of home with you…” 

As he stripped himself to continue cleaning, Feliks’s mind lurched back into doubt. With the fear and anger at seeing those scars subsiding, he fixated now on the banners and the lukewarm explanation he was given for their presence. It all felt incredibly suspicious. He had only been aboard the _Vytis_ for a day, and despite his claims to help, Toris had done nothing to provide any sort of concrete proof that he was going to help him escape capture – nothing but his word was keeping Feliks in his cabin, in his bed, and now here, kneeling in his quarters, giving himself a meager wash.

If the circumstances were different, being bare before Toris would only have been mildly embarrassing. But in that moment, on his knees of the cabin, Feliks was alarmed at how uncomfortable he was.

He trembled against another rinsing splash of saltwater.

He could feel Toris’s eyes watching him once he’d gotten fully dressed. Even before he gathered the nerve to look him in the eye, he could feel himself burning from the inside out. The sight of Toris’s gaze – at once, concerned, but also inquisitive – was so intense, he averted his eyes and settled on staring at the freckle beside his left eye.

“Feliks,” he started simply. The sound of his first name on his lips rocked Feliks to his very core. “You look like you have something on your mind…”

_What? No, it’s not as if yesterday hasn't been confusing enough! I find out my long-lost valet and best friend who I still harbor feelings for became a pirate in our five-year absence, and he may or may not turn me in for a literal king's ransom – no! The very notion never crossed my mind!_

Feliks ignored his angry, nervous train of thought and shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

Toris let his gaze drop down to the floorboards. “I’m sorry that you’ve endured so much,” he apologized, “and… I am about to ask you to endure yet another one.” Their eyes met once more and Feliks barely registered it when Toris placed his hands on his shoulders. “I will say a lot of… _unsavory_ things to my crew, but I ask you to trust me. _Please_.”

His stare was penetrating, and Feliks felt himself waver a little as that last word came out so quietly, so plaintively. He had to look away and take a breath, just to keep himself from shaking.

“I don’t really have much of a choice, do I?” he asked. The bitterness in his voice almost surprised him. _Almost_.

Toris removed his hands and began making strides toward the cabin door. “Right. Come on then,” he said as he took his tricorn hat from a small hook by the threshold, “I told them all I was to make you my personal servant, so we might as well try to convince them—”

“I am _not_ going out there,” Feliks interjected, stubbornly standing his ground. Even though he’d been stripped of his title, he still carried the pride of a Prince.

Toris began to laugh and shake his head. “You know, it’s not healthy to stay inside all day. I’ll bet you’re tired of being cooped up in here. And besides, you like the sun.” He went to open the door, and paused as it opened fully with a creak. “You… do still like the sun, right?”

Feliks sighed and folded his arms across his chest. “Just go, I’ll make sure to follow you around and keep my mouth shut.”

“That’s the spirit!”

With a light puff of air, something leathery and musty fell on Feliks’s head, pushing strands of his blond hair into his eyes. It didn’t take long for him to recognize that Toris had placed his hat on his head. Through the curtain of his hair, he could see Toris smiling playfully down at him as he walked out of the cabin. He pulled the hat off of his head and followed after Toris with a scowl on his face. If this was any indication of what being the personal servant to Captain Sirot was like, Feliks figured he was certainly in for a long, trying couple of days on the sea.


	9. The Waves Roll On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The days pass as Feliks continues his servitude beneath Captain Sirot. As the two catch up, a new and perilous task lies ahead...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take the time to thank you once again for following this story! It really is a small product of love that I've created alongside my partner - combining both of our loves for pirates and Lithuania/Poland. I know it's a very strange AU, but thank you for your support!
> 
> And also, thank you for your patience! I had been wondering how to write some of these scenes for a while, and I apologize if it feels episodic here... It all builds up to the next chapter!
> 
> I'd like to offer some special thanks to Ivan (@gnostic-heretic) for his help with the small clip of Italian in this chapter! (I really did not want to do this beautiful language wrong, even for a small quip in dialogue ;;;;; ) I also had to do some digging for Lithuanian phrases and curse words... if there are still any language errors, please let me know and I'll be happy to fix them!!
> 
> \- Papi

It had been several days since Feliks was brought aboard the _Vytis_ as its prisoner – if he were being honest with himself, he began losing count of his days on the sea. Passing from one ship to another, the roll of the waves was always the same. At the very least, he wasn’t sleeping on the floor of a cell like a dog. But _working_ like a dog… that was an entirely different matter.

Even with the privilege of being his childhood friend, Captain Sirot made good on his promise to keep Feliks as his personal servant. He took on the same labors as the crewmembers: lifting, hauling, tying, scrubbing, scraping, cooking, climbing… sure, he’d been hardened from his life on the run, but he’d never felt such soreness in his hands and his back before.

This was still just an act… right?

When he wasn’t working side-by-side with the very people who had captured him, Feliks was kept up in the Captain’s cabin as a scribe. He maintained written records of their trade negotiations and their goods. This was the part of his ‘servitude’ that he didn’t mind at all – in fact, Feliks was quite knowledgeable of trade. In his past princely duties, he learned about all sorts of bartering trades between several different kingdoms and lands. Since his exposure to places beyond his old kingdom, he could confidently interpret those same laws in languages other than his own and that of the neighboring lands.

Of course, there were times he used such knowledge in shameless ways – all horse thieving aside.

 

One of Captain Sirot’s crew – one of the two men who had carried Feliks up to the captain’s cabin when he first arrived on the ship two days ago – saw them both heading up from the main deck. He was a large man, great in stature, with arms that seemed larger than Feliks’s head. His stomach was large, and it protruded out lightly from underneath his clothes. The man greeted his captain warmly, holding his hand out as Captain Sirot firmly grasped it with a soft clap.

"Captain!” the crewmember said with a booming, jovial voice, “What say you on this fine afternoon?"

Captain Sirot laughed and clapped a firm hand on the man's shoulder, pulling slightly away from his imposing height. "Wilhelm, old friend, you've found me in a great mood."

Wilhelm let out a short laugh, one that shook his belly. "Excellent, excellent! And what say you," he began, his attention now shifting Feliks, "our newest member?"

Feliks did his best to ignore him, quailing beneath his stare. He kept his eyes on the deck and slowly shifted behind Captain Sirot.

The captain chuckled. "Please excuse Feliks here, he..." quickly thinking of an excuse, he blurted out, "...doesn't understand our languages! Yes, of course!”

Feliks turned his head up – absolutely _livid_ – and Captain Sirot moved aside to place both his hands on his shoulders, giving him a small shake. “Yes, we've made some _very good progress_ last night,” he said very loudly and carefully, hoping that his ‘prisoner’ would play along, “so hopefully he comes around to talking soon."

Wilhelm seemed to accept this answer. "I see. Well! Good luck to you on that, Captain. At least he cleans up well!" He burst out into a hearty laugh and bowed out to assist a few crewmates in lifting barrels.

Feliks glared after Wilhelm, but only for a moment before he felt Toris’s elbow jab into his side.

"Just play along," he said through gritted teeth.

They made their way down to the main deck, where the rest of the crew greeted them. Feliks side-eyed Toris, then kept his head low as crewmembers passed them by.

“Ho there, captain!” one called out.

“Ho there!” Captain Sirot called back.

Feliks grumbled – a sound that gave the captain a brief pause as the two continued through the ranks. As more crewmembers passed them by with friendly greetings, Feliks came up with the idea to utter a string of insults and slurs at them under his breath – all in his mother tongue. Needless to say, Toris took notice.           

“You’re being very rude,” he muttered to him as they kept walking, kept facing forward.

“It’s not like they know that,” Feliks whispered back with a spiteful grin, “after all, _I don’t understand speech_.”

Toris pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. I see where this is going.”

For a moment Feliks was silent, thinking. Then, he spat another insult at the next passing crewmember, this time in a foreign tongue.

“The language of the Muscovites.” Toris recognized the heavy consonants. He squeezed his eyes shut in annoyance as Feliks said it again. “Alright, I get it.”

Feliks took a deep breath through his nose, humming irritably in thought. After a pause, he whispered his terse response: “ _No, non capisci..._ _sei stato scortese con me!_ ” *

Toris blinked. “When did you learn—? That’s a language I don’t recognize—”

At this, Feliks whirled around to meet him head on, heedless of the crewmember that he’d just bumped into as he went. “Then here’s something you’ll recognize— _klausyis, šunsnuki!_ ” **

The crew stopped everything they were doing to watch as a bandit – _a mere prisoner_ – berated and cussed out their most honored Captain Sirot, Dread Pirate of the Baltic, Ruthless Pirate Captain of the _Vytis_. In the captain’s own native tongue, no less.

Before Toris or his crew could retort with words or blades, a loud snort and muffled laughter could be heard beside them. Feliks turned slowly toward the crewmember he’d bumped into, only to find Mister Varganas looking back at him. He appeared to be rubbing at his nose, but the two of them could tell he was trying hard not to laugh.

The rest of the crew began to quietly laugh along.

Feliks kept to himself for the rest of the day. He had been humiliated beyond what words could describe.

* * *

 One day, while the two of them were unfurling the sails side by side, Toris had asked, “Where did you travel to while you were on the run?”

There were so many places that came to mind, and Feliks had to think on his response. “We went everywhere,” he said, “after the uprising, we sought shelter in several towns in the south. ‘Veta had a connection in Pressburg, and he took us to his estate in Vienna, where we stayed for about a little over a year.”

Toris carefully tied the rope off to this side, all the while looking up at Feliks with great interest. “A connection in Vienna?” he asked.

Feliks smirked. “Turns out, this man was one of the suitors her parents had arranged for her – an Austrian noble by the family name of Edelstein.”

“And just how many suitors has she gone through now?”

“Who knows? It’s been at least twelve – thirteen, if you count Sir Gilbert.”

Toris looked up at him with a matter-of-fact look. “ _I don’t_ ,” he said crossly, fiercely tying the last knot into place. Any emissary of the Teutonic Order – especially the one in question – was an especially sore spot.

Feliks backed off. “Right, he was a real thorn in _our_ side, let alone ‘Veta’s.”

Toris stood back up. “—And? What did she make of this new suitor?”

The memories of Edelstein – his lack of direction, his fastidiousness, his frugality, and his lack of physical prowess – made Feliks chuckle to himself. “He’s the exact opposite of a warrior.” His face softened. “So, naturally, she fancies him.”

“It’s good that she’s starting to settle down.”

“Or, at least she’s considering it,” Feliks said with a shrug, stretching his arms up, “in any case, she owes us.”

When Toris gave him a look of confusion, Feliks merely laughed it off as they made their way down to the galley. “I will reveal all in good time, _captain_ ,” he promised.

* * *

“Where else did you go?” Toris asked the next day as the two of them wrote missives in his cabin.

The question came without context. Feliks was caught slightly off his guard, and almost smudged ink all over the parchment.

“Are you looking for a continuation from the other day?” he asked.

Toris chuckled softly. “Come on, you lived on the run. Surely you got to see some incredible places in far-off lands… it’s hard to believe the lifestyle was boring.”

Feliks didn’t look up from his work. It had been a while since he used a quill, and it was taking all of his concentration to make the lines legible. He tried to remember where he went after Vienna… it seemed like Elizaveta was always traveling back and forth between him and Edelstein, that it was hard to remember what rendezvous he’d been set up with.

“We traveled south of Vienna. At the nearest port town, I managed to sneak aboard a trade ship to Venice.” He thoughtfully dipped his quill into the inkwell. “Edelstein knew of an artist living in seclusion with his apprentice, and he figured I would be safe there.”

“And they treated you well?” Toris asked. Feliks saw that he was completely attentive. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he could feel himself dumbly smiling before he could help it.

“They were my friends… like a second family. I learned of their trade, and their art, their language…” he laughed. “I ended up staying with them for three years! They were so nice!”

Toris nodded and finished tying up a roll of parchment with a neat blue ribbon. “So why did you leave them?”

The question fell on him like a heavy fog. Feliks put down the quill.

“I had been thinking about home all those years,” he quietly admitted, “My people made it clear that I was not welcome back… but still, I wanted to see if I could salvage anything… or, maybe find some underground resistance… so I sent for ‘Veta. She didn’t think it was a good idea, but she went with me anyway…”

“Was that why you went your separate ways?” Toris asked.

Feliks bit his lip and looked sideways, down at the floorboards. He gripped a little at his chest, feeling for the outline of his rosary. “That was… one reason…”

 

Before Feliks could continue, the cabin door swung open violently. The bo'sun suddenly came into view: an absolute wreck of a man with panic in his eyes.

"Captain! Captain, this is bad! Very bad! I was - oh," he paused briefly in the middle of his ruckus as he noticed Feliks at the desk behind him, "Oh, hello there - didn't see you for a second - how do you do?"

Feliks rolled his eyes. _Just finish your sentence you clamoring idiot…_

"Please, Elias, what’s the matter?" Toris asked, rising from his seat.

The bo'sun jumped a little and turned his attentions back over to the captain. "Captain! I was up at the crow's nest, when I saw it – dark clouds. There is a storm brewing in the southeast."

Toris' expression darkened. "How far out?"

Elias trembled. "Seems a-about half a league away from us, but it's picking up fast - we may need to prepare for it tonight…"

Outside the cabin door, Feliks could see that various members of the crew had caught Elias’s words and were gathered around outside. Toris had noticed them too.

"Aye,” he responded, “be sure to pass the message along to the rest of the crew." He added the last bit with a knowing look to the rest of the crew outside. Elias gave a small, nervous salute, and stumbled awkwardly out of the cabin.

As Toris began to leave the cabin, Feliks rose from his seat and grabbed hold of his arm. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

He frowned. “The storm will be easy to ride out if we prepare now. I just want you to stay in my cabin, and stay safe.”

“But—“

“We will be fine,” Toris said, smiling back reassuringly, “just take care of yourself.”

_We will be fine._

As Feliks surrendered his arm and closed the cabin door behind him, he couldn’t help but let his worries from the days before consume him.

* * *

_The storm came quicker than they had anticipated._

_Even with Elias’s sharp eyes, it had come almost without warning. The winds whipped violently around at the crew, each blow almost as sharp as a blade, each sheet of rain came down like dozens of needles. As the crew tied down the sails and battened down the hatches, the ship was tossed in the unrelenting waves._

_The crew struggled against the wind, their shoulders hunched against the rain. There were several cries and whistles – signals of tasks completed and lines secured._

_Suddenly, there came a few sharp, sudden cries as a massive wave broke against the ship, flooding the deck._

_"Man overboard!"_

_From the helm, Captain Sirot heard the cry. He turned to Mister Varganas who, without a second thought, moved himself forward and gripped the wheel._

_“Take over!” he shouted, though his voice was lost to the thunderclap above. It was just as well – his quartermaster knew what he was doing._

_Without thinking – almost without breathing – he sprinted his way down toward the commotion. He grabbed a rope that had been left loosely bound to the spokes beneath the main mast. With quick and precise knotting, he had secured the line to both the spoke and around his waist._

_The rest of the crew had called out to him – reached out to try and stop their beloved captain – but their words were lost to the wind and the rain._

_He took a deep breath._

_Without hesitation, Captain Sirot dove from the ship, and plunged himself into the cold, dark, fierce waters below…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "No, you don't understand. You were rude to me!" (Italian, informal)
> 
> ** "Listen to me, you bastard!" (Lithuanian; literal translation: "Listen to the dogs!")


	10. Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of the unexpected storm, long-seated feelings begin to come to a head.

Thunder crashed overhead, and the ship lurched to and fro in the waves.

Feliks was huddled on the floor of the cabin, his back pressed up against the wall. His hands flew to his ears at the sound, and he tightly curled inward. He had been through storms before – in fact, he had never been afraid of them – but he was never at the mercy of a storm at sea. A quiet muttering of prayers and panicked rambling tumbled from his lips. He could hear the cries of the crew outside and the howling of the wind. Every sound made him shudder.

This was not how it was supposed to be. Was he about to lose Toris again? Feliks squeezed his eyes shut and prayed that all of this was just a terrible nightmare. _Not again. Never again._ He was bound to wake up any second now, back in his bed… surely the bellowing voices were just the farmhands rising to meet their daily tasks… surely the rocking of the boat would only be Toris gently trying to wake him up…

 

The moments passed, and the voices gradually grew softer and softer. The sheets of rain were beginning to lighten when the cabin door swung open. Feliks’s head shot up at attention, and his eyes met Toris’s – or, at least, the wet mop of hair where Toris’s eyes were. He rose to attention. 

“What happened out there?” he asked, and upon further inspection of the sopping wet pirate captain before him, he added, “and what happened to _you_?”

Toris had begun to strip himself of his wet clothes. He awkwardly bent over himself, removing his boots two-handed with an audible, wet _plop_. A stream of water spilled out. “One of my crew fell overboard. Naturally, I brought him back.”

“You what—?” Feliks felt a sudden anger lurch forward, but he bit his tongue and helped him with his other boot. “I don’t know how you can be like that…”

“Like what?”

“Like… self-sacrificing. Like you always are.”

Toris sighed as the boot slipped out from beneath his foot. He stood his ground. “It is my responsibility and sworn duty to protect—”

“ _I didn’t ask you for protection._ ”

Somewhere off in the distance, the thunder roared.

Feliks’s words cut like a knife. It seemed that even he was surprised at how bitter he sounded, let alone surprised at the slip of the tongue. He looked up and saw Toris was just as shaken. There was a moment when Feliks immediately regretted his words, but the anger ebbed back for more.

“So anyway, how much longer before you and your men turn me in?” he asked.

“We’re not turning you in,” Toris replied carefully, curtly.

“And how can I trust you?” Feliks stood up. “You keep saying that, but you haven’t even got a plan, do you?”

Feliks spared a moment for Toris, who was still sopping wet and looking deeply remorseful. He could feel a pressure in his chest that stilled his temper. Toris had always been the one with a plan – especially under pressure. Feliks remembered the evasive maneuvers Toris planned for him to avoid his teachers back when they lived in the palace. In every battle of wit, Feliks just couldn’t measure up.

Toris rubbed at his temple. “I do have a plan,” he explained tiredly, “and I fully intend to send the missives tomorrow to people who can help. When they see the message is from Captain Sirot, they will rise to arms.” 

Feliks could hardly believe the words of anger that tumbled from his lips: “So you’re just going to use… what? Your title? Your _big pirate machismo_? How long do you think _that’s_ going to last before they realize you’re aiding the escape of a high-priced bounty?”

Toris squeezed his eyes closed, and breathed through his nose. “You’re just going to have to trust me on this.”

He walked back to his desk, where the scrolls of letters he had written earlier that day had yet to be sealed. He took the red wax block at his desk and twirled it over the candle nearest to him.

“Don’t—“ Feliks began, exasperated. He rolled his eyes, “you have more important things to think about than—”

“Do you know why I became a pirate captain in the first place?” The question came abruptly as Toris dripped the wax onto the parchment, his eyes never leaving his work.

Feliks paused. “You make it sound like you never had a choice—”

“I _did_ have a choice.” Toris interrupted him, his voice just as steely. “The Jarl had a place for me aboard his vessel. I chose the _Vytis_.”

“Why?”

Toris deliberately pressed his seal into the wax. “When a man becomes a pirate, he acts on his own selfish desires. Being presented with a ship and a crew posed some advantages. I already had their trust – all that was left was to chart a course, map the lands, rendezvous on land for information. All that, just to chase what I’ve been searching for.”

Feliks was almost taken back by the story, but he pressed toward Toris at the desk. “And – have you found it? What you were searching for?”

Toris looked up from his work. “That isn’t important. Right now, we need to focus on getting you to safety—”

Another thunderclap echoed across the sea.

The wax seal clattered to the floor, red drops splattering at their feet as Feliks roughly grabbed Toris by the wet of his collar.

“ _Enough_ ,” he barked, “enough talk of safety. Toris – you have a ship. You have a crew. You have a goal. You are absolutely _mad_ if you’re thinking of throwing it all away on this plan of yours.”

Toris repeated himself firmly, “You need to trust me, _your highness_.”

 

 _Y_ _our highness_.

The image of Toris looking back at him from that time, the encroaching shadows and torchlight from the mob wreathing him one last time, became frighteningly vivid once again.

 

Trembling with rage – a rage born from the unresolved guilt he felt from that day – Feliks roared and shook him, pinning him against a wall.

“You are _not_ throwing everything away! Not _again_! Not _for me_!”

With that, Toris wrenched Feliks’s hand from off the collar of his shirt. For a moment, Feliks locked eyes with him, meeting the sudden blaze of frustration and annoyance in his expression. He had seen Toris’s temper flare in the middle of battles and duels, but there was something about the way his jaw clenched and the way he gripped him at the wrist like a warning made him snap to attention.

“You still don’t get it?” he asked, raising his voice, “The reason I became this pirate captain – _hell_ , the reason I survived this long – was all so I could make up for my past mistakes!”

Feliks tried to push himself away. “Mistakes?” he argued back, his voice even louder, “What are you talking about?”

“I had _nothing_ left to lose!" Toris released Feliks’s wrist, forcing him away. His voice cracked with emotion, and a deep, guttural emphasis pressed on his words: "If this life gave me even the slightest bit of hope that you were still alive… don’t you dare tell me that was for nothing! Finding you was everything to me then! And even now! _You are everything to me_ —!”

 

The words Feliks had prepared to fight with died out, along with his anger.

He watched Toris with the intensity of a hawk, heedless of the heat that slowly began to drain from his face. Toris must have noticed what he was saying also, since he cut himself off. His demeanor changed dramatically; all his anger and frustration forgotten. He clapped a hand over his mouth, quickly averting his eyes and crossing his arms. There was a weird choking noise that came from him as he struggled to find something to say.

 

The rain had been reduced to a hush on the wind, the thunder now reduced to a vague rumble along the horizon.

 

Mere weeks ago, Feliks thought Toris was dead. He thought he’d never get another chance to see him again, to talk to him, to _tell him_...

The memory of the last time he saw Toris before they were separated still lingered in his mind’s eye. He’d reflected since on the memory of his _best friend_ , his _dearest friend_ … and how that feeling of companionship carried a far heavier weight than he’d fooled himself into believing – if only to ease the pain of losing him.

It took him a moment to find the presence of mind to step forward. As he did, Feliks noticed an odd, dark shape pressed against the damp folds of Toris’s shirt. It didn’t take him long to realize the shape of it. He stared, unbelieving – taking two more steps forward. Toris’s hands fell rigidly at his side as Feliks reached up...

He gently slipped his fingers beneath the dark, familiar texture of the beads and withdrew the rosary. _His father’s rosary_. He knew it well, for it matched his mother’s – the one around his own neck. They’d carried those gentle memories of home with them, even after all this time...

Something wet lightly touched upon his fingertips. He met Toris’s gaze again, and his chest ached, for Toris’s eyes were wet with fresh tears. In that moment, he saw his own guilt, his fear reflected back at him: the fear of the unknown, the guilt of losing someone you love, the fear of rejection…. and he understood. 

Feliks began to tremble, starting in his chest and moving to his legs. He had finally seen everything in the evergreen of Toris’s eyes, and those words still resonated in his head: _You are everything to me!_  

He had always known that to be true. Hearing it said aloud… seeing the proof of it around his neck… it finally gave Feliks the resolve he needed.

He reached out and gently cupped Toris’s face in both of his hands. His thumbs gently rubbed away the tears that fell from his eyes. The sight was almost enough to make him cry himself; with a crooked smile, he managed to push the feeling away, and carefully – hesitantly – leaned up and touched his tear-stained cheek with his lips.

Toris swallowed a little and lifted his hand to gently touch the hand Feliks had placed on his cheek. Feliks initially recoiled from his touch, but let the roughness of Toris’s hand gently thumb the smooth curve of his knuckle. The gesture made him weak.

Losing him would have been losing it all. His home, his kingdom, and his parents were most likely lost to the uprising – but Toris was all he had. The hope that Toris was alive was everything. But _this_ … his chest hadn’t felt so full in such a long time.

“I prayed _every day_ that you would be safe,” Feliks confessed. “It was everything to me, too.”

He could feel himself getting choked up again. But instead of crying, his throat hitched and he began to laugh very softly. Soon they were both laughing, as if they had just been sharing little secrets as they used to back home. It was a small moment of normalcy and gentleness – the calm after the storm.

As quickly as it had occurred, the laughter faded into their smiles.

At last, Feliks said, “It looks like we both found what we were looking for—“

Before he could finish the thought, Toris closed the distance between their lips. 

It was unexpected and timid, and he pulled away as if he were burned by that small touch alone. Feliks could feel the inexplicable softness of Toris’s bottom lip as he drew back, the wet and salty taste from the sea still lingering on his tongue.

For a moment, Feliks forgot how to breathe as their foreheads pressed together. He could feel Toris’s breath against his cheek, feel his eyelashes flutter as he turned to look down at the floor. There was a rather nervous expression on his face.

 

How long had he wanted to do that?

_And how long had Feliks wanted him to do that?_

 

As Toris began his usual string of apologies, Feliks gripped him tightly by the collar of his shirt and sweetly met his mouth again before he could say another word.

His laughter warmed Toris’s lips. “Well, it’s _about time_.”

Their continued embrace was highly ungraceful, making up for lost time. Feliks cared not that he had never kissed another man before – let alone _anyone_ – and fully let his long-harbored feelings free.

Their teeth clattered together as they struggled to understand each other’s pace, neither of them willing to back down as their noses pressed fervently close to each others’ cheeks. Feliks could feel his own heartbeat in his ear hammering so fast; the sensation almost made him dizzy.

Toris firmly held him at the small of his back, drawing him ever closer, and Feliks linked his arms up. His hands gripped desperately at Toris’s shoulders as he continued to kiss him hard, running his fingers down past his shoulder blades…

 

The next thing Feliks knew, his wrists were roughly seized, the wind had been knocked from his lungs, and he had been pinned to the wall.

His eyes snapped open to see Toris before him, his head hung low as his shoulders heaved with the effort to breathe. As Feliks also struggled for breath, he could feel the trembling grip on his wrists tightening.

“Toris?” he asked.

Toris looked up at him. His face was as white as a sheet. Absolute terror filled his eyes.

At the sight, Feliks’s heart sank low into his stomach.

“Toris… hey, are you alright?”

Toris finally came to; blinking as he realized what was going on. He immediately released his grip. “I- I’m so sorry,” he stammered, his hands reflexively moving to hold himself together as his horrified expression twisted with his words, “I don’t know why I—” 

Feliks reached for him, tried to offer him comfort, but he wasn’t sure exactly how. Toris was still very much the way he remembered him, but in their time apart, something had changed for the worse. As Captain Sirot, he radiated confidence and power. But still, there was something that haunted him: the fear, the scars…

There was still so much about Toris he didn’t know.

“Maybe we should... call it a night,” he suggested carefully, offering his hand.

Toris nodded, now appearing very tired.

Feliks guided him over to the side of his bed and delicately helped him remove the rest of his wet clothes. Then, mindful of the way he touched Toris, Feliks managed to help him into dry clothes and tucked him into bed. He finally turned to make up the day bed for himself.

He felt Toris take him by the wrist again. It was much kinder this time: a quiet, insistent gesture.

“Please… can you stay with me tonight?” he asked, “just like when we were children…”

Feliks saw it again – the vulnerability, the fear – and was unable to say no.

He crawled in beside him, and Toris moved over to accommodate. They lay facing each other, their faces mere inches apart. Just as they did when they were children.

Feliks tentatively moved his hand closer, close enough that Toris could reach for him. Though some of the ghosts from their past seemed to have been chased away, it still would be a while before the two of them would find their way out of the storm.

He felt Toris’s knuckles brush against his, and he moved to hold his hand. Lacing their fingers together came naturally.

“I missed this,” Toris admitted.

“Me, too."

Despite the impending mutiny facing them, despite the uncertainty of his fate, Feliks felt safe as he watched Toris drift off to sleep beside him. Despite the unknown, he could feel how everything was beginning to fall into place.

He pressed his lips to their joined hands, closed his eyes, and followed after him.


End file.
